FROM    THE   LIBRARY   OF 

REV.    LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON.   D.  D. 

BEQUEATHED    BY   HIM   TO 

THE   LIBRARY  OF 

PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


tScB 


THE 


RUSTIC       BRIDGE 


Upon  a  rustic  bridge. 


_ .if." 

FRONTISPIECE 


'1'atk.  huo\  I 


Ckeeveris  Cowpei 


\* 


£j«1  OF  PR^ 


LBCTURB^^ 


y 


LIFE,  GENIUS,  AND  INSANITY 


OF 


// 


C  O  W  P  E  R. 


BY 


GEORGE  B.  CHEEVER,  D.D., 

iUTOOR  OF   "lectures  on  the  pilgrim's  progress,"    "powers  OF  THi 

WORLD  TO  COME,"    "  WANDERINGS   OF   A.  PILGRIM,"    ETC. 


NEW  YORK: 

ROBERT  CARTER  &  BROTHERS 

No.    2S5    BEOADWAT. 

1856. 


rer-.ry  qjg 


V 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1856,  by 

ROBERT  CARTER  &  BROTHERS, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  in  and  for  the 

Southern  District  of  New  York. 


CONTENTS. 


4~»~» ■ — 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

Introduction 6 

L— Cowper's  Childhood 9 

II. — His  Education 26 

III. — State  op  Religion  in  England  at  the  time  op 

his  Conversion 42 

IV. — Literature  and  Genius  op  the  Period 61 

V.— His  Awakening 69 

VI. — His  Conversion 84 

VII.— His  Survey  of  his  own  Case 94 

Vin. — Removal  to  Olney 105 

IX. — His  Autobiography,  &c 122 

X. — The  Mental  Malady  made  subservient  by  Grace 

to  a  Sweeter  Poetry 132 

XI. — The  Child  of  God  walking  in  darkness 138 

XII. — Death  op  Cowper's  Brother 145 

XIII. — Recurrence  op  Cowper's  Malady 156 

XIV. — Publication  of  his  First  Volume 166 

XV. — Cowper's  Satire 177 

XVI. — His  Humor  and  Pathos 188 

XVII. — The  Balance  op  Faculties  in  Cowper's  Mind.  200 

XVIIL— Composition  of  "  The  Task" 217 

XIX. — Internal  Conflicts  and  Invisible  Grace 227 


IV  CO  N  T  E  N  T  S  . 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XX. — Tenor  of  his  Life  and  Employments 244 

XXL — His  Religious  Enjoyment  of  Nature 253 

XXIL— Removal  to  Weston 273 

XXIII. — His    Different  Circumstances  and  Composi- 
tions Compared 288 

XXIV. — The  Reception  of  his  Mother's  Picture. 297 

XXV. — Friendship  with  Hayley 320 

XXVI.— Efficacy  of  Prayer 339 

XXVII. — Lessons  from  Cowper's  Imaginary  Despair.  .  347 

XXVIII. — Letters  and  Poetry 361 

XXIX. — Final  Recurrence  of  Cowper's  Malady,  and 

his  Death 380 

XXX.— Conclusion 404 


INTRODUCTION. 


A  series  of  Lectures  on  the  Life  and  Poetry  of  Cowper, 
delivered  a  few  years  since,  became  the  origin  of  this 
present  volume.  On  a  new  and  more  thorough  examina- 
tion of  the  Autobiography  and  Letters  of  Cowper,  in  con- 
nection with  the  Poet's  Memoir  by  Southey,  the  impression 
has  been  deepened  of  the  injustice  done  to  both  Cowper 
and  Newton  by  the  tenor  of  that  Memoir.  The  evil  and 
the  imperfection  are  in  what  is  omitted,  as  well  as  in 
some  things  injuriously  set  down.  The  remarkable  les- 
sons of  Divine  Providence  and  Grace,  the  spiritual  disci- 
pline through  which  Cowper  was  carried,  and  the  mani- 
festations of  a  Saviour's  love  to  his  soul,  were  slightly 
passed  over,  and  in  some  cases  misinterpreted  and  per- 
verted. 

The  literary  task-work  of  Southey,  in  whatever  he  un- 
dertook, was  almost  perfect  for  its  exquisite  ease  and 
quietness,  and  for  the  good  sense  and  truth  of  his  criti- 
cisms, illustrated  at  will  from  the  singular  variety  of  his 
reading.  But  when  he  came  to  speak  of  personal  religion, 
the  good  angel  of  his  genius,  if  separated  from  the  Prayer- 
book  and  the  Church,  seemed  suddenly  in  gloom.  Like 
Dante's  guide,  who  could  lead  the  way  through  hell  and 
purgatory,  but  was  not  sufficient  for  the  mysteries  of 
heaven,  a  mind  ever  so  cultivated  and  poetical,  may  be 


VI  INTRODUCTION. 

unable  to  behold  the  thiugs  of  the  Spirit  of  God,  and  they 
may  even  be  regarded  as  foolishness. 

Thou  art  arrived  where  of  itself  my  ken 
No  further  reaches.     I  with  skill  and  art 
Thus  far  have  drawn  thee  on.     Expect  no  more 
Sanction  of  warning  voice,  or  sign  from  me. 

Dante. 

Southey  knew  no  more  of  religion,  in  its  spiritual  dis- 
cernment, than  Virgil,  unless  lie  had  been  taught  it  by 
the  Spirit  of  God  in  his  heart ;  and  if  he  had  been  thus 
taught,  he  would  certainly  have  been  more  careful  not  to 
deride,  or  caricature,  or  deny,  the  work  of  the  Spirit  of 
God  in  other  hearts. 

One  of  the  main  purposes  in  this  volume  has  been  to 
illustrate  more  fully  the  religious  experience  of  Cowper, 
and  to  trace  the  causes  and  the  manner  of  his  religious 
gloom.  Some  very  manifest  sources  or  occasions  of  its 
exasperation  there  lie  scattered  along  in  the  course  and 
manner  of  his  life,  which  might  have  been  removed  by 
the  wisdom  of  experience,  and  would  have  been,  could  his 
life  have  been  lived  over  again  ;  but  the  secret  spring  dis- 
ordered, the  point  and  manner  of  entanglement  and  con- 
fusion, remain  as  much  a  mystery  as  ever,  and  always 
will.  The  chords  of  the  mental  harp  elude  the  sight,  and 
so  do  the  pressures  that  interfere  with  its  freedom  and 
melody. 

The  first  dethronement  of  Cowper's  reason  being  be- 
fore his  conversion,  his  coming  forth  from  so  thick  a 
gloom  an  entirely  changed  being,  a  new  creature  in  Christ 
Jesus,  was  so  surprising  a  phenomenon,  that  it  is  not 
much  to  be  wondered  at  that  the  world  could  not  compre- 
hend the  scene.  If  Cowper  had  returned  to  his  chambers 
in  the  Temple,  and  to  his  gay  and  irreligious  life,  they 
would  have  thought  him  perfectly  cured.     But  it  was  as 


INTRODUCTION.  Vll 

if  some  magician  had  come  forth  from  a  prison  in  the 
shape  of  an  angel,  and  it  seemed  a  trick  of  legerdemain 
or  madness.  They  thought  it  but  a  change  in  the  same 
tragedy,  the  more  especially  as  madness  has  its  passages 
from  tragedy  to  comedy,  and  from  comedy  to  tragedy. 
Some  said  his  religion  was  owing  to  his  madness ;  some 
said  his  madness  was  owing  to  his  religion  ;  some  inti- 
mated both,  and  would  not  even  receive  his  own  testimony, 
not  even  after  the  production  of  a  poem  of  such  consum- 
mate bright  perfection  as  "  The  Task"  had  proved  that  his 
mind  was  as  transparent  and  serene  in  its  faculties  of 
genius  and  of  power,  almost  as  an  angel's. 

But  the  second  access  of  his  malady  came  on,  a  second 
and  sudden  dethronement  of  reason,  at  the  close  of  eight 
years  of  angelic  light  and  peace,  and  enjoyment  in  Christ 
Jesus  ;  and  out  of  that  he  came  as  with  a  vail  over  his 
spiritual  vision,  or  as  one  bound  hand  and  foot  with  grave- 
clothes,  or  as  one  emerging  from  a  fog,  with  the  remnants 
of  the  thick  cloud  hanging  to  him ;  and  after  that,  he 
never  could  recover  the  brightness  of  his  former  hope, 
nor  the  joy  of  his  first  experience.  What  a  strange  and 
melancholy  intrusion  of  the  expelled  delirium,  when  it 
could  go  no  further,  when  it  was  cured,  indeed,  all  but  that 
gloom !  and  what  a  caput  mortuum  of  despair,  left  in  the 
crucible  after  such  a  fiery  trial  of  his  intellect !  A  re- 
covery in  every  other  respect,  save  only  the  delusion  of  a 
gloom  so  profound,  that  it  produced  the  reality  of  anguish 
all  the  keener,  because  of  the  strong  and  undiminished 
affection  of  his  heart  still  turned  heavenward,  and  like 
the  magnet  of  a  compass  as  true  in  midnight  as  at  noon ! 

His  prevailing  insanity,  so  far  as  it  could  be  called  in- 
sanity at  all,  in  those  long  intervals  of  many  years,  dur- 
ing which  his  mind  was  serene  and  active,  his  habit  of 
thought  playful,  and  his  affections  more  and  more  fervent, 
was  simply  the  exclusion  of  a  personal  religious  hope  to 


¥111  INTRODUCTION. 

such  a  degree  as  to  seem  like  habitual  despair.  This  de- 
spair was  his  insanity,  for  it  could  be  only  madness  that 
could  produce  it,  after  such  a  revelation  of  the  glory  of 
God  in  the  face  of  Jesus  Christ  as  he  had  been  permitted 
in  the  outset  to  enjoy.  If  Paul  had  gone  deranged  after 
being  let  down  from  his  trance  and  vision  in  the  third 
heavens,  and  the  type  of  his  derangement  had  been  the 
despair  of  ever  again  beholding  his  Saviour's  face  in  glory, 
and  the  obstinate  belief  of  being  excluded  by  Divine  de- 
cree from  heaven,  though  his  affections  were  all  the  while 
in  heaven,  even  that  derangement  would  have  been  scarcely 
more  remarkable  than  Cowper's.  In  the  case  of  so  deli- 
cate and  profound  an  organization  as  his,  it  is  very  diffi- 
cult to  trace  the  effect  of  any  entanglement  or  disturbance 
from  one  side  or  the  other  between  the  nervous  and  men- 
tal sensibilities  of  his  frame.  There  was  a  set  of  Border 
Ruffians  continually  threatening  his  peace,  endeavoring  to 
set  up  slavery  instead  of  freedom,  and  ever  and  anon 
making  their  incursions,  and  defacing  the  title-deeds  to 
his  inheritance,  which  they  could  not  cany  away ;  and 
Cowper  might  have  assured  himself  with  the  consolation 
that  those  documents  could  not  be  destroyed,  being  regis- 
tered in  heaven,  and  God  as  faithful  to  them,  as  if  their 
record  in  his  own  heart  had  been  always  visible.  We  have 
endeavored  to  bring  into  plainer  observation  the  course  of 
the  divine  discipline  with  this  child  of  God  walking  in 
darkness,  and  to  illustrate  some  of  the  neglected  but  pro- 
foundly instructive  lessons  of  the  darkness  and  the  con- 
flict 


CHAPTER    I. 

THE   TRIALS   OF   COWPER'S    CHILDHOOD. — COMPANIONS    AND   INFLU- 
ENCES AT  SCHOOL. — HIS  OWN  IMPRESSIONS. 

The  birthplace  of  the  poet  Cowper,  one  of  the 
few  poets  in  our  world,  beloved  as  well  as  admired 
by  those  who  read  him,  was  in  the  town  of  Great 
Birkhamstead,  in  Hertfordshire  county,  in  En- 
gland. He  was  born  in  1731,  November  the  15th, 
at  the  rectory  of  his  father,  Dr.  John  Cowper,  who 
was  chaplain  to  George  II.,  and  rector  of  Birk's 
Parish.  Cowper's  mother  died  at  the  age  of  thirty- 
four,  in  1737,  when  the  future  poet  was  but  six 
years  of  age.  Yet  at  this  early  period  her  tender- 
ness and  love  made  an  impression  on  the  whole 
heart  and  nature  of  her  child,  never  to  be  effaced. 
It  came  out  more  strongly,  as  such  early  impres- 
sions often  do,  and  perhaps  always,  when  they  are 
lasting,  at  a  far  later  age.  Near  fifty  years  after 
his  beloved  mother's  death,  Cowper  wrote  "  that 
not  a  week  passes  (perhaps  I  might  with  equal 
veracity  say  a  day)  in  which  I  do  not  think  of  her ; 
such   was   the    impression   her  tenderness    made 


10  CHILDHOOD     OF     COWPIB. 

upon  me,  though  the  opportunity  she  had  for 
showing  it  was  so  short." 

John  Randolph  once  said  to  an  intimate  friend, 
"  I  used  to  be  called  a  Frenchman,  because  I  took 
the  French  side  in  politics  ;  and  though  this  was 
unjust,  yet  the  truth  is,  I  should  have  been  a 
French  atheist,  if  it  had  not  been  for  one  recol- 
lection ;  and  that  was  the  memory  of  the  time 
when  my  departed  mother  used  to  take  my  little 
hand  in  hers,  and  cause  me  on  my  knees  to  say, 
1  Our  Father  who  art  in  heaven.'" 

How  sweet  a  picture  of  maternal  tenderness 
and  care  !  Sometimes,  in  the  midst  of  darkness 
and  despondency,  in  after  years,  Randolph  would 
write,  "  I  am  a  fatalist !  I  am  all  but  friendless. 
Only  one  human  being  ever  knew  me.  She  only 
knew  me  !"  The  idea  of  that  being  who  knew 
him  in  the  dear  relation  of  mother,  continued  to 
be  as  a  guardian  angel  to  him  ;  many  a  time  it 
seemed  the  on]y  separation  between  him  and 
death.  Oh  the.  power  of  a  mother's  love  and 
prayers  ! 

Short,  indeed,  was  the  opportunity  granted  to 
Cowper's  mother  to  manifest  her  tenderness  and 
care.  Yet  that  opportunity  was  the  time  of  ten- 
derest,  fondest  love  ;  between  three  years  old  and 
seven  or  eight,  a  mother  loves  her  children  more 
tenderly,  and  does  more  for  the  formation  of  their 
character  than  in  any  other  equal   period.     And 


CHILDHOOD     OF     COW  PER.  11 

one  of  the  reasons  plainly  is,  because  in  that  inter- 
val the  development  of  being  and  of  character  is 
sweeter,  fresher,  more  attractive  and  original,  than 
in  any  other.  The  poet  remembered  to  his  latest 
day,  with  the  warm  memory  of  love,  that  period 
of  an  affectionate  mother's  gentle  and  incessant 
care.  He  remembered  his  hours  in  the  nursery, 
remembered  when  the  gardener  Kobin  drew  him 
day  by  day  to  school  in  his  own  little  bauble  coach, 
carefully  covered  with  his  velvet  cap  and  warm 
scarlet  mantle.  He  remembered  when  he  sat  by 
his  mother  at  her  feet,  and  played  with  the  flow- 
ers wrought  upon  her  dress,  and  with  imitative  art 
amused  himself  and  her  with  pricking  the  forms 
of  the  violet,  the  pink,  the  jasmin,  into  paper 
with  a  pin  ;  the  soft  maternal  hand  from  moment 
to  moment  laid  upon  his  head,  with  endearing 
words  and  smiles  that  went  into  the  depths  of  his 
heart.  The  pastoral  home  of  his  infancy,  so  dear 
for  such  inexpressibly  delightful  hours  of  the  en- 
joyment of  a  mother's  love,  was  his  but  for  a  brief 
interval. 


1  Short-lived  possession !  but  the  record  fair, 
That  memory  keeps  of  al)  thy  kindness  there, 
Still  outlives  many  a  storm  ihat  has  effaced 
A  thousand  other  themes  less  deeply  traced. 
Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made, 
That  thou  mightst  know  me  safe  and  warmly  laid : 
Thy  morning  bounties,  ere  I  left  my  home, 
The  biscuit  or  confectionary  plum ; 


12  CHILDHOOD     OF     COWPEB. 

The  fragrant  waters  on  my  cheek  bestowed 

By  thine  own  hand,  till  fresh  they  shone  and  glowed ; 

All  this,  and  more  endearing  still  than  all, 

Thy  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no  fall, 

Ne'er  roughened  by  those  cataracts  and  breaks 

That  humor  interposed  too  often  makes ; 

All  this,  still  legible  in  memory's  page, 

And  still  to  be  so  to  my  latest  age, 

Adds  joy  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  pay 

Such  honors  to  thee  as  my  numbers  may ; 

Perhaps  a  frail  memorial,  but  sincere, 

Not  scorned  in  heaven,  though  little  noticed  here." 

The  morning  brightness  of  such  a  mother's  love, 
the  child,  passed  into  a  man,  could  not  forget, 
though  all  things  were  forgotten.  He  remem- 
bered the  sound  of  the  tolling  bells  on  the  day  of 
her  burial,  and  his  seeing  the  black  hearse  that 
bore  her  away  slowly  moving  off,  and  the  grief 
with  which  he  turned  from  the  nursery  window 
and  wept  bitterly  ;  and  he  remembered  how  the 
sympathizing  maidens,  distressed  at  his  sorrow, 
beguiled  him  day  by  day  with  the  promise  that 
his  dear  mother  would  soon  return  again,  and  how 
for  a  long  time  he  believed  what  he  so  ardently 
wished,  and  from  day  to  day  was  disappointed,  till 
the  expectation  and  the  grief  wore  out  together. 

11  Thus  many  a  sad  to-morrow  came  and  went 
Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrow  spent, 
I  learned,  at  last,  submission  to  my  lot, 
But  though  I  less  deplored  thee,  ne'er  forgot." 

Had  Cowper's  mother,  so  gentle,  so  affectionate, 


CHILDHOOD     O  J?     COWPIB.  13 

so  careful,  been  spared  to  him,  his  course  in  life 
would  have  been  very  different ;  but  perhaps  the 
poetical  peculiarities  of  his  nature  would  never 
have  been  so  exquisitely  developed.  The  crush- 
ing of  the  flower,  which  was  to  yield  so  precious 
and  perpetual  a  fragrance,  began  in  childhood. 
From  the  care  and  gentleness  of  such  a  mother, 
and  the  quiet  of  an  English  rural  home  so  peaceful, 
so  like  an  earthly  paradise,  the  sensitive,  delicate 
child  was  immediately  passed  to  the  discipline  of 
a  boarding-school.  This  would  have  been  a  deso- 
late and  cruel  change  at  best ;  but  to  Cowper,  in 
this  case,  it  was  terrible,  for  there  was  in  the 
school  a  brute  pupil  of  fifteen  years  of  age,  who 
made  himself  the  tyrant  of  the  younger  boys  with 
unheard-of  persecutions,  and  for  two  years  the 
sorrowful  and  shrinking  child  was  the  peculiar 
subject  of  this  wretch's  tyranny  and  cruelty,  until, 
the  habits  of  the  villain  being  discovered,  he  was 
expelled  from  the  school.  Cowper  also  was  re- 
leased, and  for  a  couple  of  years  was  placed  in  the 
family  of  an  eminent  oculist,  to  be  treated  for  a 
complaint  threatening  his  eyesight.  From  that 
care  and  discipline  he  was  removed,  at  the  age  of 
ten,  and  was  placed  at  Westminster,  where  seven 
of  the  most  important  years  of  his  life  were  passed 
in  the  study  of  the  classics,  till  he  was  seventeen. 
His  taste  was  cultivated,  and  his  mind  richly 
stored  by  these  years  of  classical  discipline,  but 


14  CHILDHOOD     OF     COW  PER. 

his  character   was  not  resolutely  developed,  and 
some  of  the  influences  thrown  upon  it  were  evil. 

Southey  has  noted  as  a  fact,  that  in  Cowper's 
days  there  were  together  at  the  Westminster 
School  more  youths  of  distinguished  talent  than 
ever  at  any  other  time  were  cotemporaries  there. 
Some  of  them  were  afterward  his  intimate  com- 
panions in  the  pursuits  of  literature,  while  profess- 
edly engaged  in  the  study  of  the  law.  Coleman, 
the  play-writer,  was  one,  whose  character,  along 
with  that  of  Lord  Thurlow,  Cowper  drew  with 
some  severity,  when  they  had  both  unkindly  neg- 
lected the  poet,  on  his  sending  to  them  the  first 
fruits  of  his  poetical  genius. 


"  Thy  schoolfellow,  and  partner  of  thy  plays, 
When  Nichol  swung  the  birch,  and  twined  the  bays." 


In  regard  to  the  intimacies  of  his  school-days, 
Cowper  long  afterward  expressed  nimself  to  his 
friend  Mr.  Unwin,  "I  find  such  friendships,  though 
warm  enough  in  their  commencement,  surprisingly 
liable  to  extinction,  and  of  seven  or  eight,  whom  I 
had  selected  for  intimates,  out  of  about  three  hun- 
dred, in  ten  years'  time  not  one  was  left  me."  He 
told  the  same  friend  that  on  his  quitting  West- 
minster, he  valued  a  man  according  to  liis  pro- 
ficiency and  taste  in  classical  literature,  and  had 
the  meanest  opinion  of  all  other  accomplishments 


CHILDHOOD      OF      COWPER,  15 

unaccompanied  by  that,  but  that  he  had  lived  to 
see  the  vanity  of  what  he  had  made  his  pride,  and 
to  find  that  all  this  time  he  had  spent  in  painting 
a  piece  of  wood  that  had  no  life  in  it,  and  when 
he  began  to  think  indeed,  he  found  himself  in  pos- 
session of  many  baubles,  but  not  one  grain  of 
solidity  in  all  his  treasures.  Yet  what  precious 
treasures  did  they  prove,  when  at  length,  imbued 
with  the  sweetest  spirit  of  piety,  they  were  wrought 
into  the  most  imperishable  forms  of  English  litera- 
ture. Cowper's  English  style,  like  Goldsmith's, 
seemed  part  of  the  intuitive  elements  of  his  ge- 
nius ;  it  was  not  formed  by  his  classical  discipline 
at  Westminster,  but  grew,  as  an  apple-blossom 
grows  out  of  life,  by  the  law  of  life  ;  for  Cowper 
has  stated  in  his  letters  some  curious  facts  as  to 
the  general  neglect  of  English  in  a  school  given  to 
Latin  and  Greek.  The  very  same  lad,  he  said, 
was  often  commended  for  his  Latin,  who  deserved 
to  be  whipped  for  his  English,  and  not  one  in  fifty 
of  those  who  passed  through  Westminster  and 
Eton,  arrived  at  any  remarkable  proficiency  in 
speaking  and  writing  their  own  mother  tongue. 

With  merry  playmates  at  Westminster,  Cowper 
must  have  enjoyed  many  hours,  notwithstanding 
all  that  he  is  said  to  have  suffered,  both  there  and 
at  the  earliest  scene  of  his  school-trials.  Hayley 
tells  us  that  Cowper  had  "  been  frequently  heard 
to  lament  the  persecution  he  sustained  in  his  child- 


16  CHILDHOOD     UF      OOWPEB. 

ish  years,  from  the  cruelty  of  his  school-fellows  in 
the  two  scenes  of  his  education.  His  own  forci- 
ble expression  represented  him  at  Westminster  as 
not  daring  to  raise  his  eye  above  the  shoe-buckle 
of  the  elder  boys,  who  were  too  apt  to  tyrannize 
over  his  gentle  spirit."  Cowper's  own  description 
of  this  misery  refers  only  to  his  experience  at  the 
school  for  children  in  Hertfordshire.  But  Hayley 
seems  to  write  from  the  remembrance  of  Cowper's 
conversation,  and  describes  the  same  torment  as 
endured  in  some  degree  at  Westminster.  There 
can  be  no  doubt  that  in  such  treatment  of  a  mind 
and  heart  so  tenderly  sensitive,  so  exquisitely  deli- 
cate, there  was  gathering,  even  at  the  earliest 
period,  that  cloud,  at  first  no  bigger  than  a  man's 
hand,  which  was  at  length  to  overshadow  his 
whole  being  with  the  blackness  of  a  settled  mad- 
ness and  despair. 

The  whole  of  his  early  education  was  certainly, 
in  some  respects,  most  unfortunate.  Of  his  situa- 
tion in  the  household  of  the  surgeon  and  oculist, 
where  he  went  at  eight  years  of  age  for  medical 
discipline,  connected  with  the  system  of  education 
afterward  pursued,  he  speaks  himself,  in  brief 
terms,  as  follows  :  "I  continued  two  years  in  this 
family,  where  religion  was  neither  known  nor  prac- 
ticed, and  from  thence  was  dispatched  to  West- 
minster. Whatever  seeds  of  religion  I  might  carry 
thither,  before  my  seven  years'  apprenticeship  to 


CHILDHOOD      OF      COW  PER.  17 

the  classics  were  expired,  were  all  marred  and  cor- 
rupted. The  duty  of  the  schoolboy  swallowed  up 
every  other  ;  and  I  acquired  Latin  and  Greek  at 
the  expense  of  knowledge  much  more  important/' 
He  speaks  in  this  connection,  of  some  early  casual 
impressions  in  regard  to  his  own  mortality,  in- 
creased by  intimations  of  a  consumptive  habit, 
and  attended  with  a  lowness  of  spirits  uncommon 
at  such  an  age. 

Certainly,  it  were  a  sufficient  cause  for  unhappi- 
ness,  not  imaginary  nor  temporary,  to  be  banished 
at  so  tender  an  age  as  Cowper  was  from  so  dear  a 
home  as  his,  and  thrown  upon  the  care  of  strang- 
ers in  a  boarding-house  ;  and  four  years,  from  the 
age  of  six  to  ten,  spent  so  unhappily,  are  reason 
enough  for  that  "  uncommon  lowness  of  spirits." 
Cowper  was  thrown  upon  himself  too  early,  and 
with  too  entire  an  absence  of  any  dear  personal 
guide  or  friend,  for  the  habit  of  self-reliance  to 
grow  out  of  such  discipline.  De  Quincey,  in  some 
reference  to  the  years  of  his  childhood  says,  "  By 
temperament,  and  through  natural  dedication  to 
despondency,  I  felt  resting  upon  me  always  too 
deep  and  gloomy  a  sense  of  obscure  duties,  at- 
tached to  life,  that  I  never  should  be  able  to  ful- 
fill ;  a  burden  which  I  could  not  carry,  and  which 
yet  I  did  not  know  how  to  throw  off."  Tins  is  a  very 
common  experience,  in  boys  of  a  reflective  nature, 
though  not  always  remembered  and  defined  with 


18  CHILDHOOD      OF     COW  PER. 

so  much  distinctness.  Suppose  it  were  increased 
to  a  morbid  degree  by  circumstances,  it  might 
easily  become  a  predisposing  cause  of  permanent 
gloom  assuming  the  type  of  madness.  And  this 
feeling,  at  a  later  period,  was,  absolutely,  one  of 
the  exasperating  causes  of  Cowper's  insanity.  If 
another  human  being  could  have  been  found  to 
take  the  responsibility  of  life  upon  himself,  Cow- 
per's  mind  would  have  been  at  ease,  and  no  catas- 
trophe of  madness  would  have  happened.  But, 
then,  for  aught  we  can  see,  his  conscience  would 
have  remained  at  ease,  also,  and  he  never  would 
have  been  awakened  from  the  careless  dreamings 
of  an  indolent,  gay,  social  existence,  as  attractive, 
when  its  habit  was  once  formed,  as  it  was  useless, 
but  ruinous  for  his  nobler  and  better  nature.  He 
was  rudely  and  awfully  thrown  upon  himself,  and 
found  himself  the  greatest  of  all  burdens  that  the 
mind  could  bear  ;  yet  not  till  despair  came,  abso- 
lute despair,  was  he  thrown  upon  his  Saviour,  and 
not  till  then  did  he  find  rest. 

He  has  described  his  singular  religious  indiffer- 
ence at  the  age  of  fourteen,  when  seized  with  the 
small-pox,  and  presumed  to  be  but  a  step  from 
death.  And  it  ivas  singular,  for  that  is  an  age 
when,  in  the  prospect  of  death,  conscience  is  ordi- 
narily much  alarmed,  and  there  is  great  anxiety, 
for  the  heart  has  not  been  hardened.  But  Cowper 
says,  "  Though  I  was  severely  handled  by  this  (lis- 


CHILDHOOD     OF     COWPER.  19 

ease,  and  in  imminent  danger,  yet  neither  in  the 
course  of  it,  nor  during  my  recovery,  had  I  any 
sentiments  of  contrition,  any  thought  of  God  or 
eternity."  Cowper  goes  still  further  in  the  record 
against  his  boyish  days,  the  review,  from  an  ad- 
vanced and  holy  post  of  observation,  of  the  evil 
habits  he  was  then  contracting.  He  says  he  was 
hardly  raised  from  his  bed  of  pain  and  sickness 
before  the  love  of  sin  became  stronger  than  ever, 
and  the  devil  seemed  rather  to  have  gained  than 
lost  an  advantage  over  him.  "  By  this  time,"  he 
says,  "that  is,  about  the  age  of  fourteen,  I  be- 
came such  an  adept  in  the  infernal  art  of  lying 
that  I  was  seldom  guilty  of  a  fault  for  which  I 
could  not  invent  an  apology  capable  of  deceiving 
the  wisest.  These,  I  know,  are  called  schoolboys' 
tricks  ;  but  a  total  depravity  of  principle,  and  the 
work  of  the  father  of  lies,  are  universally  at  the 
bottom  of  them." 

Southey  sets  this  down  as  a  species  of  Protestant 
exaggerated  self-condemnation,  either  hypocritical 
or  enthusiastic,  either  to  deceive  others,  or  to  pro- 
mote the  cause  of  religion  by  magnifying  the  mira- 
cle of  one's  own  conversion.  It  is  no  great  com- 
pliment to  the  character  of  Cowper,  the  Christian 
and  the  poet,  to  intimate  that  he  would  delibe- 
rately and  knowingly  exaggerate  the  sins  and 
follies  of  his  childhood,  even  for  the  purpose  of 
magnifying  a  miracle.     It  is  no  great  compliment 


20  CHILDHOOD      OF      COWPEE. 

to  his  truthfulness  to  intimate  that  he  would  en- 
deavor to  set  forth  the  miracle  of  his  own  conver- 
sion as  greater  than  it  really  was.  Southey  thinks 
that  Cowper  imposed  upon  himself,  when  accusing 
himself  as  a  juvenile  proficient  in  the  infernal  art 
of  lying,  in  a  far  greater  degree  than  he  had  ever 
imposed  upon  an  usher  ;  and  he  adds,  contrary  to 
all  experience,  "  that  lying  is  certainly  not  one  of 
those  vices  which  are  either  acquired  or  fostered 
at  a  public  school." 

But  how  could  Cowper,  as  a  truthful  man,  have 
accused  himself  of  lying  in  his  childhood  if  he  had 
not  remembered  and  known  that  he  had  been 
guilty  of  that  sin  ?  How  could  he  impose  upon 
himself  with  such  a  mere  imagination,  when  he 
was  sitting  down  to  compose  a  severely  truthful 
history  ?  How,  above  all,  could  he  deliberately 
attempt  to  impose  upon  others,  or  to  record  for 
others'  instruction,  as  a  definite  well-known  point 
in  his  own  early  life  and  character,  what  was  noth- 
ing better  than  a  slander  against  himself  ?  It  is 
a  most  injurious  and  humiliating  argument  by 
which  Southey,  in  order  to  avert  the  charge  of  de- 
pravity from  Cowper's  youth,  fastens  that  of  de- 
ception upon  Cowper's  Christian  manhood.  And 
yet  Southey  acknowledges  that  "  Cowper  was  not 
one  of  those  persons  who  gratify  their  spiritual 
pride  by  representing  themselves  as  the  vilest  of  sin- 
ners/'    The  secret  of  the  strange  apology  is  in  the 


CHILDHOOD      OF      COWPBB.  21 

next  sentence,  in  which  Southey,  because  it  is  cer- 
tain that  Cowper  had  been  an  inoffensive  gentle 
boy,  discards  as  not  to  be  received  in  evidence  of 
any  such  evil  habit  as  that  of  falsehood,  "  what- 
ever he,  in  his  deplorable  state  of  mind,  may  have 
said  or  thought  of  his  own  childhood." 

Now  it  can  hardly  be  credited  that  the  state  of 
mind  which  Southey  here  sets  down  as  deplorable, 
when  Cowper  penned  his  own  exquisitely  beautiful 
and  affecting  memoirs,  and  gave  the  history  of  his 
childhood,  was  the  calmest,  brightest,  serenest,  most 
spiritual  and  heavenly  period  and  mood  of  his  whole 
life  ;  a  state  of  mind,  in  which  the  presence  of  his 
Saviour  was  a  light  of  glory  and  of  joy,  and  the 
very  atmosphere  of  his  heart  was  as  the  air  of 
heaven.  It  was  so  far  from  deplorable  for  himself, 
that  he  was  always  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  sweet- 
est social  and  Christian  communion,  and  in  the 
almost  uninterrupted  exercise  of  prayer  and  praise. 
And  so  far  from  melancholy  to  others,  that  the 
very  sight  of  a  creature  so  exalted  in  spiritual 
happiness  was  full  of  interest  and  delight ;  for  he 
looked  on  all  around  him  with  celestial  love,  and 
he  judged  all  things  with  a  serene,  unbiassed  spir- 
itual judgment,  neither  censorious,  nor  harsh,  nor 
gloomy,  but  sweetly  radiant  with  the  beauty  of  that 
happiness,  through  which  every  thought  was  trans- 
mitted. All  forms  of  opinion,  all  sentences  on  his 
past  life,  and  anticipations  of  his  future,  flew  freely 


22  CHILDHOOD     Q  F     0  O  W  P  B  R  . 

forth,  like  birds  of  Paradise,  through  an  avenue  of 
peace  and  joy,  bearing  fragrance  from  the  trees  of 
life  on  either  side  upon  their  wings.  It  was  the 
experience  of  "  the  peace  of  God  that  passeth  all 
understanding,  keeping  both  heart  and  mind 
through  Christ  Jesus." 

And  yet,  Southey  had  the  hardihood  to  speak 
of  Cowper,  while  in  the  experience  of  such  religious 
feeling  and  enjoyment,  as  "in  his  deplorable  state 
of  mind,"  and  could  say  of  him  that  "  he  regarded 
with  a  diseased  mind  his  own  nature  and  the 
course  of  human  life,"  when  he  referred  to  the  ab- 
sence of  religion  in  his  own  childhood.  It  is  in 
the  same  mood  that  Southey  speaks  of  Cowper's 
interesting  account  of  himself  as  "his  melancholy 
memoirs."  Repeatedly  Southey  speaks  of  the 
"  exaggerated  language"  of  these  memoirs  in  re- 
gard to  their  description  of  the  native  evil  of  the 
human  heart,  and  of  the  total  want  of  religion  in 
Cowper's  own  heart  before  his  conversion.  In  di- 
rect contradiction  to  Cowper's  own  solemn  affirma- 
tions of  what  he  remembered  in  regard  to  his  own 
character  and  condition  in  his  childhood  and  youth, 
Southey  says,  "  He  had  no  cause,  real  or  imaginary, 
for  regret  or  self-reproach.  He  was  exactly  one 
of  those  boys  who  choose  for  themselves  the  good 
that  may  be  gained  at  a  public  school,  and  eschew 
the  evil,  being  preserved  from  it  by  their  good  in- 
stincts, or  by  the  influence  of  virtuous  principles 


CHILDHOOD      OF      COW  PER.  23 

inculcated  in  childhood."  Whose  testimony,  in 
such  a  case,  is  to  be  believed  ? — that  of  the  author 
of  the  autobiography,  speaking  of  himself,  and 
speaking  as  a  Christian,  from  a  heart  full  of  the 
emotions  of  heavenly  gratitude  and  praise,  or  that 
of  the  biographer,  contradicting  the  autobiography, 
and  declaring  that  he  knows  more  about  Cowper's 
childhood  than  Oowper  knew  himself,  and  can  de- 
scribe more  truthfully  than  Cowper  has  done,  the 
early  life  of  the  poet  ? 

The  passage  in  which  Cowper  charges  upon  his 
youthful  character  and  years  the  habit  of  falsehood, 
is  omitted  from  the  autobiography  in  some  of  the 
editions  of  the  poet's  Life  and  writings.  It  is  some- 
what altered  even  by  G-rimshawe.  And,  indeed,  it 
is  veiy  natural  to  wish  that  there  had  been  no 
occasion  for  writing  it.  But  we  are  not  sitting  in 
court,  where  the  counsel  and  the  judge  will  not 
admit  any  thing  from  the  prisoner  himself,  against 
himself,  to  go  to  the  jury.  Every  word  is  precious. 
The  "  Jerusalem  sinner,"  the  happy,  forgiven,  re- 
joicing saint  in  Christ  Jesus,  was  drawing  up  as 
truthful  an  account  as  he  could  give  of  his  form  el- 
and his  present  self ;  of  his  character  and  habits 
as  a  boy  and  a  man,  without  grace,  and  of  the 
great  and  mighty  change  wrought  in  him  by 
grace  ;  and  we  can  not  but  esteem  it  a  false  and 
ill-judged  delicacy,  which  would  suppress,  or  deny 
and  contradict  such  a  passage  as  this,  out  of  a 


24  CHILDHOOD      OF      COWPEB. 

supposed  regard  to  the  poet's  memory.  One  might 
as  well  and  as  wisely  suppress  John  Newton's  ac- 
count of  his  manner  of  life  while  engaged  in  slave- 
trading,  together  with  his  profaneness  and  the  vices 
of  his  character. 

The  truth  is,  we  would  like  to  see,  in  the 
review  of  Cowper's  early  life,  whatever  Cowper 
himself  saw,  and  judged  it  for  the  glory  of  God 
that  others  also  should  see  and  remark  upon.  If 
he  had  fallen  into  evil  habits,  his  being  rescued 
from  them  by  Divine  grace  could  not  be  known 
unless  they  were  known.  It  is  more  to  the  glory 
of  God,  than  it  is  to  the  disgrace  of  the  sinner, 
that  they  should  be  known  in  every  case  in  which 
the  grace  of  God  is  so  triumphant.  The  greater 
the  guilt,  the  greater  the  grace  and  glory  of  salva- 
tion. "Howbeit,"  says  Paul,  "for  this  cause  I 
obtained  mercy,  that  in  me  first  Jesus  Christ 
might  show  forth  all  long-suffering,  for  a  pattern 
to  them  which  should  hereafter  believe  on  Him  to 
life  everlasting."  Paul  says  that  God  called  him 
and  forgave  him,  not  because  his  sins  were  small 
and  few,  but  many  and  great,  that  he  might  give 
point  and  power  to  that  "  faithful  saying  and  wor- 
thy of  all  acceptation,  that  Christ  Jesus  came  into 
the  world  to  save  sinners,  of  whom  I  am  chief." 
And  David  in  his  very  prayer,  "For  Thy  name's 
Bake  pardon  mine  iniquity,  for  it  is  great," 
expresses  the  same  wondrous  theology,  wondrous 


CHILDHOOD     OF      COWPER.  25 

and   always  new   in  the  world,   for  its  amazing 
mercy. 

Let  then  sin  have  its  full  merit,  as  well  as  grace  ; 
justice  to  the  one  is  but  justice  to  the  other.  No 
extenuation  of  human  offenses,  whether  in  boy- 
hood or  manhood,  can  glorify  God,  but  the  man- 
ifestation of  God's  glory  most  powerfully  sets  off 
the  baseness  of  every  kind  of  sin,  in  every  age  and 
place.  Set  down,  if  you  please,  those  equivoca- 
tions, deceits,  concealments,  and  false  excuses, 
which  Cowper  rudely  describes  as  the  infernal  art 
of  lying  ;  set  them  down  as  mere  harmless,  boyish 
tricks  and  stratagems  ;  yet  they  show  the  corrupt- 
ing power  of  evil  example  in  a  public  school,  even 
upon  a  nature  constitutionally  so  frank  and  indis- 
posed to  falsehood  as  the  youthful  Cowper's.  His 
character  as  yet,  while  at  school,  was  not  firm,  but 
irresolute  and  yielding,  and  he  had  no  religious 
principles  or  habits  to  bear  him  through  tempta- 
tion unharmed. 

2 


CHAPTER    II. 

PUBLIC  SCHOOLS  AND  PRIVATE  TUITION'. — "  THE  TIROCINIUM." — COW- 

PER'S  EXPERIENCE   AT   WESTMINSTER. COWPER'S   HABITS  WHILE 

A  STUDENT-AT-LAW. — HIS   RESIDENCE   IN   THE  TEMPLE. — HIS  CON- 
VIVIAL AND  LITERARY  COMPANIONS. 

An  admirable  judge  of  English  schools  in  his 
day,  Mr.  De  Quincey,  has  expressed  the  opinion 
that  Cowper  was  far  from  doing  justice  to  the 
great  public  schools  of  the  kingdom  in  his  "  Tiro- 
cinium/' or  review  of  the  school  discipline.  He 
affirms  that  Cowper  was  disqualified,  by  delicacy 
of  temperament,  for  reaping  the  benefit  from  such 
a  warfare,  and  having  suffered  too  much  in  his 
own  Westminster  experience,  he  could  not  judge 
the  great  public  schools  from  an  impartial  station  ; 
"  but  I,"  continues  he,  "  though  ill  enough  adapted 
to  an  atmosphere  so  stormy,  yet  having  tried  both 
classes  of  schools,  public  and  private,  am  com- 
pelled, in  mere  conscience,  to  give  my  vote  (and  if 
I  had  a  thousand  votes,  to  give  all  my  votes)  for 
the  former." 

So,  too,  as  between  the  public  and  private  schools 


PUBLIC      SCHOOLS.  27 

that  Cowper  had  attended,  the  proof  in  his  expe- 
rience was  in  favor  of  the  former,  for  he  suffered 
much  more  at  the  private  school  than  he  did  at 
the  public.  But  this  by  no  means  invalidates  his 
testimony  as  to  the  essential  evils  of  the  latter. 
And  a  system  of  education  which  proves  good 
only  for  the  rougher  and  more  rugged  natures  and 
constitutions,  but  injurious  for  the  shrinking,  the 
sensitive,  the  gentle  and  refined,  and  for  the  sen- 
sibilities of  exquisite  genius  hidden  in  its  child- 
hood, can  not,  on  the  whole,  be  the  best.  Cowper, 
however,  was  not  disqualified,  either  by  excessive 
delicacy  of  temperament  or  delicacy  of  constitu- 
tion, for  the  rough-and-tumble  even  of  a  town 
school ;  it  was  the  moral  influences  that  he  com- 
mented upon  with  such  just  and  graphic  severity  in 
"  The  Tirocinium,''  which  is  a  poem  recommending 
private  tuition  in  preference  to  an  education  in 
any  public  school  whatever.  Cowper  delighted  in 
the  athletic  sports  of  boyhood,  and  was  foremost 
in  them  for  skill  and  energy,  so  that  thus  far,  at 
least,  it  was  nothing  in  his  own  idiosyncracies  that 
created  the  prejudice,  or  unfitted  him  to  bear  an 
impartial  testimony.  But  what  he  saw  in  others 
and  knew  from  experience,  of  the  injurious  deso- 
lating moral  effect,  the  mining  and  sapping  of  re- 
ligious principle,  if  such  principle  had  been  taught 
in  early  childhood,  the  precocious  instruction  in 
fashionable  vices,  the  exclusion  or  dishonor  of  re- 


28  T  II  K      MORALITIES 

ligious  truth  and  a  religious  example,  the  forming 
and  fixing  of  habits  and  a  character  that,  what- 
ever might  be  the  sphere  molded  of  hereditary 
fortune  here,  could  prepare  the  being  for  nothing 
but  misery  hereafter  ; — these  are  the  things  pre- 
sented with  such  caustic  satire,  and  at  the  same 
time  affectionate  and  solemn  warning  in  this  admi- 
rable poem.  The  reader  of  it  knowing  that  Cow- 
per  drew  his  description  from  reality,  and  that  he 
did  not  exaggerate  nor  set  down  any  thing  in  mal- 
ice,  can  not  wonder  at  the  feelings  of  the  poet,  nor 
at  his  calling  the  public  schools  menarjer' 


■•  TThat  cause  can  move  us  (knowing  as  we  must. 
That  these  menageries  all  fail  their  trust) 
To  send  our  sons  to  scout  and  scamper  there, 
While  colts  and  puppies  cost  us  so  much  care  ?" 


How  beautiful,  how  impressive,  is  the  opening 
of  that  poem,  and  the  argument,  from  which  the 
writer  deduces  the  rule  and  foundation  of  its  criti- 
cisms. 


That  vre  are  bound  to  cast  the  minds  of  youth 
Betimes  into  the  mold  of  heavenly  truth. 
That,  taught  of  God,  they  may  indeed  be  wise, 
Nor.  ignorantly  wand'ring,  miss  the  skies." 


From  the  creation,  the  chain  of  reasoning  pro- 
ceeds to  man,  placed  by  its  Author  as  its  intelli- 
gent, majestic  head,  the -state,  the  splendor,  and 


OF     PUBLIC      SCHOOLS.  29 

the  throne  being  an  intellectual  kingdom.  And 
thus  intelligent,  and  standing  as  the  crown  of  such 
a  world,  the  wildest  scorner  of  the  laws  of  his 
Maker  may,  in  a  sober  moment,  find  time  to  pause 
and  to  ask  himself,  why  so  framed  and  placed  in 
such  a  position,  so  fearfully  and  wonderfully  made  ? 
If  only  to  see  and  feel  by  the  light  of  reason,  and 
with  an  aching  heart,  the  contradiction,  chaos,  and 
fury  of  passions  which  reason  can  indeed  condemn, 
but  can  bring  no  force  to  conquer  them  ;  if,  impo- 
tent and  self-wretched  in  this  world,  there  is  here 
no  cure  ;  and  if,  when  this  demonstration  of  folly, 
guilt,  and  helplessness  is  at  an  end,  there  is  noth- 
ing better  beyond,  or  nothing  at  all ;  then,  of  all 
the  objects  and  creatures  of  this  world,  man  stands 
self-impeached,  though  at  the  head  of  creation, 
the  creature  of  least  worth. 


"  And,  useless  while  he  lives,  and  when  he  dies, 
Brings  into  doubt  the  wisdom  of  the  skies  ; 
What  none  could  reverence,  all  might  justly  blame, 
And  man  would  breathe  but  for  his  Maker's  shame." 


But  it  is  perfectly  plain  that  if  all  the  objects  of 
the  universe  show  forth  the  glory  of  the  Maker, 
fulfilling  some  wise  and  obvious  purpose,  and 
demonstrating  a  divine  intelligence  and  goodness, 
certainly  not  Divine  unless  both  good  and  intelli- 
gent, then  he  to  whom  is  given  or  appointed  the 
dominion  over  such  a  world,  has  been  invested 


30  thi:     :i  0  B  A  L  I  I  I  I  B 

with  faculties  and  powers  to  fill  that  station  for 
the  same  great  purpose,  and  stands  arrayed  in  his 
kingship  of  intelligence  and  power,  that  he  may 
reflect,  not  less  than  earth,  sea,  and  air,  the  attri- 
butes of  his  Creator. 

"  That  first  or  last,  hereafter,  if  not  here. 
He  too  might  make  his  Author's  wisdom  clear ; 
Praise  Him  on  earth,  or,  obstinately  dumb, 
Suffer  His  justice  in  a  world  to  come." 

Such  is  the  truly  sublime  argument  with  which 
Cowper  introduces  his  rugged  and  profoundly  sa- 
tirical "  Keview  of  Schools."  The  close  of  it  reminds 
the  reader  of  a  passage  in  Coleridge's  "  Statesman's 
Manual,"  by  which  he  means  the  Bible,  with  its  les- 
sons of  God's  wisdom  for  man's  guidance.  "  The 
root  is  never  detached  from  the  ground.  It  is  God 
every  where  :  and  all  creatures  conform  to  His 
decrees,  the  righteous- by  performance  of  the  law, 
the  disobedient  by  the  sufferance  of  the  penalty!' 
If  such  the  destiny  of  man,  then,  exclaim  both 
poets,  what  combined  madness  and  dishonesty  to 
set  up  any  system  of  public  education  of  which 
the  end  is  not  man's  highest  interest,  and  the 
means  God's  truth  ! 

Now  the  truths  (Cowper  continues)  found  out 
only  with  great  pains  by  men  of  great  learning,- 
are  not  always  as  important  as  they  are  dear- 
bought. 


OF     PUBLIC     SCHOOLS.  31 

"  But  truths  on  which  depends  our  main  concern, 
That  'tis  our  shame  and  misery  not  to  learn, 
Shine  by  the  side  of  every  path  we  tread 
With  such  a  luster,  he  that  runs  may  read.-' 

Here  are  verses  from  which  Wordsworth  might 
have  drawn  his  lines  : 


'The  primal  duties  shine  aloft  like  stars, 
The  charities  that  soothe,  and  heal,  and  bless, 
Are  scattered  at  the  feet  of  man  like  flowers." 


But  the  distinction  between  the  two  passages  is 
that  between  the  two  poets,  the  one  comparatively 
artificial  and  elaborately  philosophic,  even  though 
full  of  nature  and  feeling,  the  other  the  poet  of 
rural  simplicity,  of  piety,  of  Scripture  truth,  strong, 
homely,  natural  thought,  deep  feeling  and  common 
sense.  Both  are  great  poets  ;  but  no  passage  can 
be  turned  into  prose  from  Wordsworth's  pages 
that  shall  exhibit  such  a-  compact  argument  of 
plain,  intelligible,  strong  thought,  with  a  mighty 
and  solemn  conclusion,  befitting  and  crowning  its 
grandeur,  as  is  to  be  found  in  the  three  opening 
paragraphs  of  Cowper's  "  Tirocinium,  or  a  Review 
of  Schools." 

Southey  speaks  of  the  destructive  influence  of  a 
public  education  upon  those  devotional  habits 
which  in  a  sweet  Christian  household  may  have 
been  learned  at  home ;  and  he  says  that  nothing 
which  is  not  intentionally  profane  can  be  more  ir- 


32  THE      MORALITIES 

religious  than  the  forms  of  religion,  which  are 
observed  at  such  a  school  as  that  at  Westminster ; 
and  that  the  attendance  of  schoolboys  in  a  pack  at 
public  worship  is  worse  than  perfunctory.  Yet  the 
master  at  Westminster  in  Cowper's  time,  as  named 
in  the  Valediction,  was  Dr.  Nichols,  apparently 
a  conscientious  man  ;  and  Cowper  afterward  re- 
marked upon  the  pains  he  took  to  prepare  the 
boys  for  confirmation,  acquitting  himself  like  one 
who  had  a  deep  sense  of  the  importance  of  his 
work.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  Cowper  says  he 
attempted  to  pray  in  secret ;  but  being  little  ac- 
customed to  that  exercise  of  the  heart,  and  having 
very  childish  notions  of  religion,  he  found  it  a  dif- 
ficult and  painful  task,  and  was  even  then  fright- 
ened at  his  own  insensibility.  "  This  difficulty," 
says  he,  "  though  it  did  not  subdue  my  good  pur- 
poses till  the  ceremony  of  confirmation  was  passed, 
soon  after  entirely  conquered  them.  I  relapsed 
into  a  total  forgetfulness  of  God,  with  all  the  dis- 
advantages of  being  the  more  hardened  for  being 
softened  to  no  purpose."  Oh,  if  there  could  have 
been  at  this  time  some  kind,  affectionate  Christian 
teacher  and  friend,  to  lead  the  awakened,  trem- 
bling, thoughtful  boy  to  the  Saviour,  what  years 
of  agony  and  darkness  might  not  have  been  pre- 
vented! 

At  Westminster,  Cowper  was  in  high  favor  with 
his  master,  from  whom  he  received  rewards  for  his 


of    public    Schools.  33 

poetical  Latin  exercises,  and  among  the  boys  he 
excelled  at  foot-ball  and  cricket.  Neither  in  mind 
nor  body,  therefore,  was  he  idle  ;  and  from  one  of 
his  later  letters  in  the  review  of  this  early  period, 
we  learn  that  while  at  Westminster  he  was  cured 
of  that  alarming  disorder  in  the  eyes,  for  which  he 
had  been  two  years  in  the  house  of  a  renowned 
oculist,  but  to  no  good  purpose.  From  thence  he 
says  he  went  to  Westminster  School,  where,  at  the 
age  of  fourteen,  the  small-pox  seized  him,  and 
proved  the  better  oculist  of  the  two,  for  it  deliv- 
ered him  from  all  the  inflammations  to  which  he 
had  been  subject.  He  has  also  informed  us  that 
at  the  age  of  fourteen  he  first  tried  his  hand  at 
English  verse,  in  a  translation  of  one  of  the  elegies 
of  Tibullus.  From  that  time  Hayley  says  he  had 
reason  to  believe  that  Cowper  frequently  applied 
himself  to  poetical  efforts  ;  but  the  earliest  pre- 
served on  record  is  the  piece  on  finding  the  heel 
of  a  shoe,  which  he  wrote  at  Bath  in  1748,  about 
a  year  before  he  left  Westminster.  It  was  in 
blank  verse,  and  may  be  regarded  as  shadowing 
forth,  through  an  interval  of  near  forty  years,  some 
of  the  admirable  native  characteristics  of  the  future 
poet -of  "The  Task." 

At  the  age  of  eighteen,  Cowper  himself  says 
that  he  left  Westminster,  a  good  grammarian,  but 
as  ignorant  of  religion  as  the  satchel  at  his  back. 

He  then  spent  nine  months  at  home,  and  after 
2* 


34  LAW      B  T  U  D  I  K  S   .  IN 

some  anxious  deliberation,  which  such  a  step  must 
have  cost  him,  the  profession  of  the  law  was  fixed 
upon  as  the  path  of  his  future  life,  and  he  was  ar- 
ticled with  Mr.  Chapman,  an  attorney,  for  three 
years.  It  was  a  choice  most  unsuited  to  his  men- 
tal constitution,  and  his  tastes  and  habits  ;  and 
had  it  not  been  so,  the  poetical  development  of 
his  genius  must  have  been  prevented  by  the  ab- 
sorption of  his  whole  being  in  legal  studies  and 
pursuits.  A  genuine  poet  would  have  been  sacri- 
ficed for  the  very  common  growth  of  an  indifferent 
lawyer  ;  for  by  no  possibility  could  Cowper  have 
ever  risen  to  eminence  in  that  profession :  at  the 
uttermost  he  would  but  amiably  have  adorned  the 
gift  of  some  friendly  professional  sinecure. 

In  the  attorney's  office,  Cowper  had  for  a  fellow- 
clerk  the  celebrated  Thurlow,  afterward  lord-chan- 
cellor. At  a  later  period,  Cowper  wrote  to  Lady 
Hesketh  in  reference  to  the  tenor  of  his  life  in 
that  three  years'  probation  of  it,  that  he  and 
Thurlow  were  employed  "  from  morning  till  night 
in  giggling  and  making  giggle,"  instead  of  studying 
law.  In  his  own  memoir  of  himself  he  says  that 
he  might  have  lived  and  died  ivithout  seeing  or 
hearing  any  thing  that  might  remind  him  of  one 
single  Christian  duty,  had  it  not  been  that  he  was 
at  liberty  to  spend  his  leisure  time  (which,  he  says, 
was  well-nigh  all  my  time)  at  his  aunt's  in  South- 
ampton Row.     "  By  this  means  I  had  opportunity 


T  II  E      M  I  D  I)  L  E      T  11  ftl  P  L  E  .  35 

of  seeing  the  inside  oY  a  church,  whither  I  went 
with  the  family  on  Sundays,  and  which,  probably, 
I  should  otherwise  never  have  seen." 

Cowper  was  twenty-one  years  of  age  when  he 
left  the  attorney's  office,  and  took  rooms  in  the 
Middle  Temple  to  continue  his  studies,  in  a  man- 
ner, as  he  says,  complete  master  of  himself.  And 
here  commences  the  profoundly  interesting  and 
instructive  account  by  himself  of  the  development 
of  his  own  character,  and  the  change  of  his  own 
being  from  carelessness  to  despondency,  and  from 
despondency  to  despair,  madness,  and  attempted 
suicide ;  from  suicide,  frustrated  by  the  providen- 
tial mercy  of  God,  he  advanced  to  the  deepest  con- 
viction of  guilt,  with  an  apprehension  of  the  Divine 
vengeance,  carried  for  months  almost  to  the  ex- 
treme of  despair  ;  from  that  time  he  was  brought, 
by  the  wonderful  grace  of  God,  to  a  simple,  hum- 
ble faith  in  the  Lord  Jesus,  a  clear,  joyful,  exper- 
imental understanding  and  appreciation  of  the 
conditions  of  salvation  through  his  blood,  and  a 
profound  peace  and  happiness  in  believing. 

At  his  residence  in  the  Temple  began  the  first 
experience  of  that  terrible  despondency  of  soul, 
which  at  length  grew  into  an  enshrouding  mental 
and  physical  disease,  broken  only  by  the  grave. 
Day  and  night  he  describes  himself  under  this  de- 
jection of  spirits,  as  being  upon  the  rack,  lying 
down  in  horror,  and  rising  up  in  despair.     He  lost 


3b'  Q  LOO  M      AND      (i  A  V  B  T  V  . 

all  relish  even  for  his  classical  studies  ;  and  singu- 
larly enough,  the  only  book  in  which  he  took  any 
delight  was  a  volume  of  Herbert's  poems,  which 
he  then  first  met  with,  and  pored  over  him  all 
day  long.  After  nearly  a  year  spent  in  this 
wretched  disquietude,  without  any  relief,  he  at 
length  betook  himself  to  prayer,  that  is,  he  com- 
posed what  he  calls  a  set  of  prayers,  and  made 
frequent  use  of  them.  About  the  same  time, 
spending  several  months  with  friends  at  South- 
ampton, the  cloud  of  insupportable  gloom  was 
very  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  removed  from  his 
soul  while  gazing  at  the  lovely  scenery.  The  de- 
liverance thus  experienced,  which  at  first  he  as- 
cribed to  God's  merciful  answer  to  his  prayers,  he 
soon  concluded  to  have  been  owing  to  nothing  but 
a  change  of  season  and  the  amusing  varieties  of 
the  place  ;  and  he  consequently  argued  that  noth- 
ing but  a  continued  circle  of  diversions  and  indulg- 
ence of  appetite  could  secure  him  from  a  relapse. 
Acting  on  this  principle,  as  soon  as  he  returned  to 
London  he  burned  his  prayers,  and  he  says  that 
inasmuch  as  they  had  been  a  mere  prepared  form, 
away  with  them  went  all  his  thoughts  of  devotion 
and  of  dependence  upon  God  his  Saviour. 

Twelve  years  were  spent  in  this  manner,  with 
companions  and  associates  who,  like  himself,  were 
(in  his  own  description)  professed  Christians,  or 
else  professed   infidels,  in  what  Cowper  calls   an 


GLOOM      AND      G  A  Y  E  T  Y .  37 

uninterrupted  course  of  sinful  indulgence.  It  is 
not  necessary  to  exaggerate  the  meaning  of  this 
expression  to  all  the  intensity  it  would  bear ;  on 
the  contrary,  this  would  be  false  and  unjust.  To 
the  awakened  conscience  and  the  smitten  heart, 
beneath  the  sense  of  God's  holiness,  the  uninter- 
rupted pursuit  of  worldly  enjoyment^  though  in 
the  most  moral  style,  without  grossness,  and  in  the 
best  possible  taste  and  dignity,  would  appear  in 
reality  an  uninterrupted  course  of  sinful  indulg- 
ence. There  may  be  the  supreme  worship  of  self, 
and  a  heart  wholly  unchanged  by  grace,  even  in 
connection  with  the  most  irreproachable  morality. 
We  suppose  that  Cowper's  life  was,  briefly,  that  of 
a  gay,  careless  man,  a  man  of  the  world ;  and  he 
declares  that  he  obtained  at  length  so  complete  a 
victory  over  his  conscience  that  all  remonstrances 
from  that  quarter  were  vain,  and  in  a  manner  si- 
lenced. Yet,  in  the  company  of  deists,  when  he 
heard  the  Gospel  blasphemed,  he  never  failed  to 
assert  the  truth  of  it  with  much  vehemence,  and 
was  sometimes  employed,  when  half  intoxicated, 
in  vindicating  the  truth  of  Scripture.  A  deistical 
friend,  on  one  such  occasion,  answered  his  argu- 
ments by  declaring  that  if  what  he  said  was  true 
then  he  was  certainly  damned  by  his  own  showing 
and  choosing. 

In  1754,  at  the  age  of  twenty-three,  with  such 
habits  begun,  he  was  admitted  to  the  bar,  and  in 


38  RESIDENCE     IN      THE     TEMPLE. 

1756  suffered  the  loss  of  his  father  ;  an  affliction 
of  which  he  does  not  once  speak  in  his  memoirs  of 
himself,  nor,  singularly  enough,  do  we  ever  find 
him  adverting  to  it  in  any  of  his  letters,  save  only 
on  one  occasion,  in  a  letter  to  his  friend  Mr.  Kose, 
in  1787.  "  A  sensible  mind  can  not  do  violence 
even  to  a  .local  attachment,  without  much  pain. 
When  my  father  died,  I  was  young,  too  young  to 
have  reflected  much.  He  was  rector  of  Berkham- 
stead,  and  there  I  was  born.  It  had  never  oc- 
curred to  me  that  a  parson  has  no  fee-simple  in 
the  house  and  glebe  he  occupies.  There  was  nei- 
ther tree,  nor  gate,  nor  stile,  in  all  that  country, 
to  which  I  did  not  feel  a  relation,  and  the  house 
itself  I  preferred  to  a  palace.  I  was  sent  for  from 
London  to  attend  him  in  his  last  illness,  and  he 
died  just  before  I  arrived.  Then,  and  not  till 
then,  I  felt  for  the  first  time  that  I  and  my  native 
place  were  disunited  forever.  I  sighed  a  long 
adieu  to  fields  and  woods,  from  which  I  once 
thought  I  should  never  be  parted,  and  was  at  no 
time  so  sensible  of  their  beauties  as  just  when  I 
left  them  all  behind  me,  to  return  no  more." 

Three  years  afterward  he  removed  to  the  Inner 
Temple,  and  at  the  age  of  twenty-eight  was  made 
Commissioner  of  Bankrupts.  He  was  at  this  time 
strongly  attached  to  one  of  his  cousins,  a  most  in- 
telligent, interesting,  and  lovely  person,  Miss  The- 
odora Cowper,  whom  he  would  have  married,  for 


RESIDENCE     IN     THE     TEMPLE.  39 

her  own  affections  were  as  deeply  concerned  as 
his  ;  but  the  father  absolutely  refused  his  consent 
on  account  of  their  relationship.  It  was  a  deep, 
painful,  disastrous  disappointment,  and  unques- 
tionably increased  for  a  season  his  constitutional 
tendency  to  gloom  and  depression.  He  expressed 
his  feelings  in  some  affecting  verses,  which  were 
sent  to  Lady  Hesketh,  the  sister  of  the  young 
lady  whom  he  loved. 

During  his  twelve  years'  residence  in  the  Tem- 
ple, he  was  member  of  a  club  consisting  of 
several  literary  gentlemen,  among  whom  were 
Thornton,  Colnian,  Lloyd,  and  Joseph  Hill,  Esq., 
Cowper's  constant  correspondent  for  thirty  years. 
Wilkes  and  Churchill,  whose  vigorous  poetry  Cow- 
per  admired,  were  of  the  same  circle  of  associates. 
The  character  and  life  of  some  of  these  men  of 
genius  have  been  fitly  characterized  in  three  words, 
thoughtless  extravagance  and  dissipation.  Lloyd 
died,  the  victim  of  his  own  excesses,  at  the  early 
age  of  thirty-one  years.  Colman,  after  an  im- 
moral life,  died  in  a  lunatic  asylum.  Such  might 
have  been  Cowper's  fate,  had  not  the  mercy  of 
Divine  providence  and  grace  rescued  him  from  a 
participation  in  such  ruin.  He  had  mixed  with 
such  companions  on  equal  terms,  Southey  has  re- 
marked, till  a  time  of  life  in  which  habits  take  so 
strong  a  hold  that  they  are  not  easily  cast  off. 
The  period  of  his  early  intimacy  with  Lloyd  is 


^  I         ft  B  B I DI  N  C  E     I  N     T  II  B     T  B  M  P  L  B  . 

marked  by  a  poetical  epistle  from  Cowper  to  his 
friend  in  1754,  in  which  there  occurs  a  reference 
to  his  own  habitual  depression  of  spirits,  in  lines 
that  are  to  be  marked  as  connected  with  the  speedy 
development  of  his  disorder.  He  remarks  that  he 
did  not  design,  in  writing  verse,  to  rob  his  friend 
of  his  birthright  to  the  inheritance,  undivided,  of 
Prior's  easy  jingle,  nor  to  show  his  own  genius  or 
wit,  possessing  neither.  Yet  both  were  proved, 
and  some  of  the  strongest  characteristics  of  the 
future  poet  are  visible. 

"  'Tis  not  with  either  of  these  views 
That  I  presume  to  address  the  muse, 
But  to  divert  a  fierce  banditti 
(Sworn  foes  to  every  thing  that 's  witty) 
That  with  a  black,  infernal  train, 
Make  cruel  inroads  in  my  brain, 
And  daily  threaten  to  drive  thence 
My  little  garrison  of  sense. 
The  fierce  banditti  that  I  mean 
Are  gloomy  thoughts,  led  on  by  spleen." 

The  deepening  of  this  depression  into  almost  hor- 
ror and  despair  is  marked  in  his  own  memoirs  of 
himself,  as  well  as  the  means  he  took  to  dissipate 
the  gloom.  He  seems  to  have  been  for  years  suc- 
cessful in  removing  it,  or  at  least  keeping  it  at 
arm's  length,  and  had  it  gone  no  further,  it  might 
have  proved  his  irremediable  ruin  by  continuing 
him  in  the  society  of  his  dissipated  companions 
too  long  and  late  for  any  recovery.     But  it  pleased 


RESIDENCE     IN     THE     TEMPLE.  41 

God  that  it  should  be  permitted  to  deepen  into 
absolute  frenzy;  and  despair  and  suicide  were 
made  the  providential  angels  that  snatched  Cow- 
per  from  destruction. 


CHAPTER    III. 

STATE   OF  RELIGION   IX   ENGLAND   AT  THE  TIME   OF   COWPER'S  CON- 
VERSION.— LADY      HUNTINGDON. — MR.     MADAN. — LORD      BOLLNG- 

BROKE. — DR.     STONEHOUSE. — DR.     COTTON. — ROMAINE. VENN. — 

SOME   REMARKABLE   INSTANCES  OF   GRACE. 

The  year  1762.  when  Cowper  was  first  under 
the  cloud  and  passed  through  the  sea,  introductory 
to  his  being  baptized,  not  unto  Moses  but  into 
Christ,  may  be  taken  as  the  center  of  a  most  re- 
markable religious,  if  not  literary  period.  We 
prefer  it  for  a  starting-point  and  vision  of  survey, 
to  the  year  of  the  half  century,  mainly  because  it 
was  nearer  to  the  central  development  of  the  great 
religious  awakening  and  revival  in  England,  in 
which  the  revered  and  beloved  Lady  Huntingdon 
occupies  a  position  so  vital  and  important,  so  hon- 
ored and  admired.  And  Cowper's  conversion  was 
one  of  the  fruits  of  that  revival,  one  of  the  precious 
ingatherings  to  the  fold  of  the  Kedeemer,  under 
that  same  general  dispensation  of  the  Spirit  under 
which  Newton  and  Scott,  Whitefield  and  Wesley, 
were  made  instruments  of  such  amazing  power  and 
brightness  in  advancing  the  kingdom  of  God. 


REV.      MARTIN      51ADAX.  43 

Cowper's  afflictions  first  brought  him  within  reach 
of  one  of  the  eddies,  as  it  were,  of  this  mighty 
movement,  in  presenting  him  as  the  subject  of  deep 
spiritual  distress  to  the  Rev.  Martin  Madan  for 
sympathy  and  guidance.  Mr.  Madan  was  a  rela- 
tive of  Cowper,  being  the  eldest  son  of  Colonel 
Madan,  who  married  the  daughter  of  Judge  Cow- 
per, the  brother  of  the  lord-chancellor.  Mr. 
Madan  was  one  of  Lady  Huntingdon's  preachers, 
so  called,  that  is,  occupying  one  of  the  chapels 
founded  by  that  woman  of  such  enlarged  intelli- 
gence and  devoted  and  fearless  piety.  Cowper  had 
known  him  at  an  earlier  period,  but  regarded  him 
in  the  light  in  which  all  that  circle  of  evangelical 
disciples  of  Christ  were  esteemed  by  the  circle  of 
aristocracy,  wealth,  and  fashion,  to  which  the  poet 
by  birth  belonged,  that  is,  as  a  misguided  enthu- 
siast. Mr.  Madan  had  been  educated  in  the  study 
of  the  law,  but  being  convinced  of  his  condition  as 
a  lost  sinner,  and  brought  to  a  knowledge  of  the 
grace  of  the  Gospel,  became  a  preacher  of  Christ 
crucified,  and  was  the  founder  and  first  chaplain  of 
the  Lock  Hospital,  a  situation  which  Thomas 
Scott,  the  commentator  and  author  of  "  The  Force 
of  Truth,"  afterward  filled  for  a  season. 

Mr.  Madan' s  conversion  took  place  about  ten 
years  before  Cowper's,  and  Cowper  regarded  him, 
during  those  years,  as  one  of  the  enthusiasts,  in 
consequence.     The  preaching  of  Wesley  and  the 


44  madan's    conversion. 

Methodists  was  then  attracting  crowds  in  London, 
and  one  evening  Mr.  Madan,  in  the  midst  of  a  gay 
and  careless  circle  at  a  coffee-house,  was  dispatched 
by  his  companions  to  go  and  hear  Wesley,  who  was 
preaching  that  evening  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
then  to  come  back  and  "  take  him  off"  for  their 
amusement.     He  entered  heartily  into  the  joke, 
but  it  happened  that  just  as  he  took  his  seat  in  the 
chapel  with  that  purpose,  Wesley  was  repeating 
his  text,  Prepare  to  meet  thy  God,  with  an  intens- 
ity of  solemnity  and  awe  that  arrested  Madan's 
conscience  at  the  outset.     The  impression  deepened 
as  Wesley  went  on  with  his  rousing  and  fervent 
appeals  on  the  destiny  of  the  soul  and  the  necessity 
of  repentance  ;  and  when  Madan  returned  to  the 
coffee-house,  and  was  asked  by  his  laughing  com- 
panions if  he  had  taken  off  the  old  Methodist,  all 
the  answer  he  could  make  was,  "  No,  gentlemen, 
but  he  has  taken  me  off/'     He  then  left  the  gay 
circle  and  never  returned  to  it,  but  was  soon  or- 
dained a  minister  of  the  Church  of  England,  and 
preached  his  first  sermon  to  a  great  crowd  of  curious, 
wondering  listeners  of  all  classes  in  All-hallows 
Church,   Lombard-street.      He  was   a    heart-felt 
Christian  and  an  able  preacher,  and  thus  was  pre- 
pared the  first  Evangelist  who  was  to  meet  Cowper 
when  half  distracted  and  trembling  under  the  over- 
hanging crags  and  flashes  of  Sinai.     So  he  met 
him,  and  preached  Christ  to  his  wounded  spirit, 


M  A  DAN     A  N  I)     C  0  W  P  E  R  .  45 

then  upon  the  verge  of  madness  ;  and  immediately 
affer  that  consolation,  which  seemed  a  visible  prep- 
aration from  heaven  for  the  storm  he  was  to  en- 
counter, Cowper  passed  into  the  gloom  of  utter 
insanity  and  despair.  It  was  almost  like  putting 
a  chronometer  into  the  cabin  of  a  vessel,  when 
there  were  none  on  board  of  sufficient  intelligence 
to  consult  it ;  but  wrho  can  tell  how  far  the  first 
gleam  of  light,  the  first  word  of  mercy,  the  first 
revelation  of  the  Gospel,  may  have  wrought  in 
Cowper's  heart,  even  during  the  dethronement  of 
reason,  and  among  his  wandering  thoughts  pre- 
pared him  afterward  to  lay  hold  on  the  hope  set 
before  him  ? 

In  a  letter  written  to  his  cousin,  Mrs.  Cowper, 
the  sister  of  Martin  Madan,  soon  after  Cowper  had 
taken  up  his  residence  in  the  family  of  the  Unwins, 
he  described  his  feelings  in  regard  to  Mr.  Madan, 
contrasting  them  with  what  they  had  been  formerly. 
"  Your  brother  Martin  has  been  very  kind  to  me, 
having  written  to  me  twice  in  a  style  which,  though 
it  was  once  irksome  to  me,  to  say  the  least,  I  new 
know  how  to  value.  I  pray  G-od  to  forgive  me  the 
many  light  things  I  have  both  said  and  thought 
of  him  and  his  labors.  Hereafter  I  shall  consider 
him  as  a  burning  and  shining  light,  and  as  one  of 
those  who,  having  turned  many  to  righteousness, 
shall  shine  hereafter  as  the  stars  forever  and  ever.'/ 

It  was  Mr.   Madan   by  whom  the  instructive 


46  LORD      BOL  IN  BROKE. 

anecdote  was  preserved  and  related  in  regard  to  the 
interview  between  Lord  Bolingbroke  and  Dr. 
Church,  a  'prominent  divine  of  the  Church  of  En- 
gland, who,  with  Bishop  Lavington  and  others, 
rejected  and  ridiculed  the  doctrines  of  grace.  The 
anecdote  was  given  to  Mr.  Madan  by  Lady  Hun- 
tingdon  herself,  who  received  it  from  Lord  Boling- 
broke. As  it  combines  with  other  occurrences  to 
form  a  vivid  picture  of  the  times,  such  as  we  would 
like  to  convey,  it  may  not  be  a  digression  to  repeat 
it.  Lord  Bolingbroke  was  employed  one  morning 
in  his  study  reading  Calvin's  Institutes,  when  Dr. 
Church,  a  divine  of  the  English  Establishment, 
called  on  him.  The  deist  asked  the  divine  if  he 
could  guess  what  book  it  was  that  he  had  been 
studying  ?  "  Keally,  my  lord,  I  can  not,"  answered 
the  doctor.  u  Well,"  said  Lord  Bolingbroke,  "  it 
is  Calvin's  Institutes.  What  do  you  think  of  such 
matters  ?"  "  Oh,  my  lord,  we  don't  think  about 
such  antiquated  stuff ;  we  teach  the  plain  doctrines 
of  virtue  and  morality,  and  have  long  laid  aside 
those  abstruse  points  about  grace."  "  Look  you, 
doctor,"  said  Lord  Bolingbroke,  "  you  know  I  don't 
believe  the  Bible  to  be  a  divine  revelation  ;  but 
they  loho  do  can  never  defend  it  on  any  principles 
but  the  doctrine  of  grace.  To  say  the  truth,  I  have 
at  times  been  almost  persuaded  to  believe  it  upon 
this  view  of  things  ;  and  there  is  one  argument 
which  has  gone  very  far  with  me  in  behalf  of  i:s 


BR.      STONEIIOUSE.  47 

authenticity,  which  is,  that  the  belief  in  it  exists 
upon  earth  even  when  committed  to  the  care  of 
such  as  you,  who  j)retend  to  believe  it,  and  yet 
deny  the  only  principles  on  which  it  is  defensible." 
Dr.  Stonehouse  was  one  of  the  crowd  of  deists 
who,  along  with  Lord  Bolingbroke,  attacked  Chris- 
tianity at  this  period,  but  was  also  one  of  the  re- 
markable fruits  of  the  mighty  work  of  grace  by 
which  so  many  of  the  higher  classes,  as  well  as  the 
lower,  were  snatched  as  brands  from  the  burning. 
Dr.  Doddridge  was  the  happy  and  honored  instru- 
ment in  his  conversion,  and,  like  Mr.  Madan,  Dr. 
Stonehouse  also  renounced  his  profession  and  be- 
came a  preacher  of  the  Gospel.  Dr.  Cotton,  the 
eminent  physician  and  poet,  who  kept  the  lunatic 
asylum  at  St.  Alban's,  where  Cowper's  bark, 
"  though  tempest-tossed  and  half  a  wreck,"  was 
to  find  shelter,  was  a  friend  of  Dr.  Stonehouse,  and 
by  him  was  introduced  to  the  notice  of  Lady  Hunt- 
ingdon, about  ten  years  before  Cowper  came  under 
his  care.  On  the  publication  of  Cotton's  volume 
of  poems,  "  The  Visions  in  Verse,"  the  author 
sent  a  copy  to  her  ladyship,  who,  with  her  accus- 
tomed sweetness,  delicacy,  and  faithfulness,  on 
acknowledging  the  receipt  of  the  volume,  pointed 
out  to  the  amiable  author  what  she  felt  to  be  its 
deficiencies  (considering  its  subjects)  in  conse- 
quence of  the  absence  of  religious  truth.  Dr.  Cot- 
ton received  her  remarks  most  kindly,  and  Lady 


48  D  B  .      CUT  T  O  N  . 

Huntingdon  thus  speaks  in  one  of  her  letters  in 
regard  to  the  incident.  "  I  am  glad  that  my  good 
friend  was  not  offended  at  my  late  well-meant  ad- 
monition and  reproof.  We  must  be  faithful  to 
each  other,  or  else  how  can  we  expect  to  meet 
with  joy  at  the  great  tribunal  ?  I  trust  he  will 
yet  be  enabled  to  see  by  faith  the  Lord's  Christ. 
Blessed  be  God,  in  Him  all  fullness  dwells,  of 
merit  and  righteousness,  of  grace  and  salvation, 
and  this  for  the  vilest  of  the  vile,  for  whoever  will. 
0,  then,  my  friend, 

"  If  haply  still  thy  mental  shade 
Dark  as  the  midnight  gloom  be  made, 
On  the  sure  faithful  arm  Divine 
Firm  let  .thy  fastening  trust  recline. 
The  gentlest  Sire,  the  best  of  Friends, 
To  thee  nor  loss  nor  harm  intends. 
Though  toss'd  on  a  tempestuous  main, 
Xo  wreck  thy  vessel  shall  sustain. 
Should  there  remain  of  rescuing  grace 
No  glimpse,  no  footsteps  left  to  trace, 
Hear  the  Lord's  voice ;  'tis  Jesus's  will ; 
Believe,  thou  poor  dark  pilgrim,  still. 

"  Thus  much  I  have  written  to  my  worthy  friend 
at  St.  Alban's,  and  I  trust  God  will  bless  my  poor 
unworthy  services  to  his  eternal  good.  I  long  to 
see  his  line  genius  consecrated  to  the  best  of  causes, 
the  glory  of  our  incarnate  God,  and  the  salvation 
of  souls  redeemed  by  His  most  precious  blood.*' 

If  these  lines  ever  fell  under  the  notice  of  Cow- 
per,   during  the  darkness   of  his   mental   shade. 


GOSPEL     MYSTERY.  49 

nothing  could  be  more  admirably  adapted  to  his 
case  than  the  instruction  so  conveyed. 

Lady  Huntingdon  at  one  time  sent  to  Dr.  Cot- 
ton the  religious  work  of  Marshall,  entitled  "The 
Gospel  Mystery  of  Sanctification."  Dr.  Cotton 
entered  into  some  little  controversy  with  his  friend 
Hervey,  the  author  of  the  "  Meditations/'  in  re- 
gard to  Marshall's  sentiments,  which  he  thought 
unscriptural  and  unreasonable.  Mr.  Hervey  en- 
deavored to  enlighten  Cotton's  mind  as  to  the 
truths  of  the  Gospel  as  set  forth  in  the  work  by 
Marshall,  but  with  what  success  we  know  not. 
Cowper  understood  and  admired  the  volume,  if 
Cotton  did  not ;  and  very  likely  it  was  in  the  lu- 
natic asylum,  and  under  Dr.  Cotton's  care,  that  he 
met  with  it ;  so  that  Lady  Huntingdon's  gift 
reached  the  right  recipient,  a  heart  prepared  for 
it,  and  one  that  needed  it.  Cowper  says,  in  one 
of  his  letters,  "  Marshall  is  an  old  acquaintance  of 
mine.  I  have  both  read  him  and  heard  him  read 
with  pleasure  and  edification  ;  the  doctrines  he 
maintains  are,  under  the  influence  of  the  Spirit  of 
Christ,  the  very  life  of  my  soul  and  the  soul  of  all 
my  happiness.  I  think  Marshall  one  of  the  best 
writers,  and  the  most  spiritual  expositor  of  the 
Scriptures  I  ever  read." 

The  characteristics  of  this  era  of  the  Holy  Spir- 
it's power  in  England  can  not  be  better  conveyed 
than  by  the  relation  of  some  of  the  extraordinary 

3 


50  CONVERSION      OF      THORPE. 

cases  of  conversion  through  the  preaching  of  White- 
field,  Boinaine,  Wesley,  and  others.  One  of  the 
most  singular  was  that  of  Mr.  Thorpe,  who  after- 
ward became  an  effective  minister  of  that  Gospel 
which  at  first  he  ridiculed.  He  was  one  of  White- 
field's  most  insulting  opposers,  and  possessing  an 
unusual  talent  for  mimicry,  he  not  only  inter- 
rupted his  sermons  in  public,  but  ridiculed  them 
in  private  in  convivial  theatrical  circles.  On  one 
occasion,  at  such  a  gathering  for  pleasure,  revelry, 
and  wit,  he  and  three  of  his  companions  laid  a 
wager  for  the  most  effective  imitation  and  ridicule 
of  Whitefield's  preaching.  Each  was  to  open  the 
Bible  at  random  and  preach  an  extempore  ha- 
rangue from  the  first  verse  that  presented  itself, 
and  the  audience  were  to  adjudge  the  prize  after 
hearing  all.  Thorpe's  three  competitors  each 
went  through  the  game  with  impious  buffoonery, 
and  then  it  came  his  turn.  They  had  the  table 
for  their  rostrum,  and  as  he  stepped  upon  it,  con- 
fident of  his  superior  ability,  Thorpe  exclaimed, 
"I  shall  beat  you  all."  They  handed  him  the 
Bible,  and  when  he  opened  it,  the  invisible  provi- 
dence of  God  directed  his  eye  at  the  first  glance 
to  the  verse  in  the  thirteenth  chapter  of  Luke's 
Gospel,  "Except  ye  repent  ye  shall  all  likewis'e 
perish."  He  read  the  words,  but  the  moment  he 
had  uttered  them  he  began  to  see  and  to  feel  their 
full  import.     The  swgrd  of  the  Spirit  in  that  pass- 


CONVERSION      OF      THORPE.  51 

age  went  through  his  soul  as  a  flash  of  lightning, 
revealing  and  consuming.  An  instantaneous  con- 
viction  of  his  own  guilt  as  a  sinner  against  God 
seized  hold  upon  hint,  and  conscience  was  aroused, 
as  it  sometimes  is,  suddenly  and  unexpectedly, 
and  always  will  be  when  God  sets  our  sins  before 
us  in  the  light  of  His  countenance.  The  retribu- 
tion in  that  passage  he  felt  was  for  himself,  and 
its  terrors  glared  upon  him  in  array  against  his 
own  soul,  and  out  of  that  rapid  and  overwhelming 
conviction  he  preached. 

The  truths  of  guilt,  death,  eternity,  and  the 
judgment  to  come,  were  never  proclaimed  in 
gloomier  aspect,  for  there  was  no  mixture  of  grace 
with  them.  Yet  he  frequently  afterward  declared 
that  if  ever  in  his  life  he  preached  by  the  assist- 
ance of  the  Spirit  of  God,  it  was  at  that  time. 
The  whole  subject  was  revealed  before  him,  the 
necessity  of  repentance,  the  threatened  perdition 
of  the  soul,  the  terrors  of  the  second  death  ;  and  he 
preached  to  his  companions,  guilty,  reprobate,  and 
dying,  as  himself  reprobate  and  dying.  His  fer- 
vor and  fire  increased  as  he  went  on,  and  the  sym- 
pathetic gloom  of  his  audience  deepened  the  con- 
victions on  his  own  soul,  and  the  sentences  fell 
from  his  lips  with  such  intense  and  burning  im- 
agery, and  such  point,  pungency,  and  power  of 
language,  that,  as  he  afterward  related,  it  seemed 
to  him  as  if  his  own  hair  would  stand  erect  with 


52  REV.      MB.      BOMAIMI. 

terror  at  their  awfulness.  It  was  as  a  blast  from 
the  lake  burning  with  fire  and  brimstone.  Yet  no 
man  interrupted  him,  for  all  felt  and  saw,  from  the 
solemnity  of  his  manner,  what  an  overwhelming 
impression  there  was  upon  him,  and  though  their 
astonishment  deepened  into  angry  and  awful  gloom 
beneath  the  lurid  glare  of  his  address,  yet  they  sat 
spell-bound,  listening  and  gazing  at  him,  and 
when  he  descended  from  the  table  a  profound  si- 
lence reigned  in  the  whole  circle,  and  not  one  word 
concerning  the  wager  was  uttered.  Thorpe  in- 
stantly withdrew  from  the  company  without  utter- 
ing a  word,  and,  it  is  needless  to  say,  never  re- 
turned to  that  society  ;  but,  after  a  season  of  the 
deepest  distress  and  conflict,  passed  into  the  full 
light  of  the  Gospel,  and  at  length  became  a  most 
successful  preacher  of  its  grace. 

Two  other  cases  may  be  named,  occurring  under 
the  ministry  of  two  of  Lady  Huntingdon's  chap- 
lains, at  Oat  Hall  ;  the  first  under  the  preaching 
of  the  celebrated  Mr.  Komaine,  and  the  last  under 
that  of  Mr.  Venn,  scarcely  less  remarkable  as  a 
devout  experimental  preacher.  The  two  cases  are 
from  extremes  in  society,  and  therefore  are  with 
greater  propriety  presented  as  illustrations  of  the 
all-pervading  power  of  this  work  of  God's  grace. 
And  the  time  of  these  two  striking  instances  was 
very  near  that  of  Cowper's  own  spiritual  arrest 
and  conversion,  from  1762  to  1764.     The  first  was 


CAPTAIN     SCOTT.  53 

of  a  military  gentleman  of  an  ancient  family,  Cap- 
tain Scott,  who  had  been  a  soldier  from  his  seven- 
teenth year,  and  was  one  of  the  officers  exposed 
to  imminent  peril  at  the  battle  of  Minden,  in  1759. 
A  sense  of  his  danger  led  him  to  the  daily  reading 
of  the  psalms  and  hymns  in  the  Church  lessons  of 
each  day,  but  beyond  this  he  advanced  not  a  step 
to  the  knowledge  of  the  grace  of  Christ  as  the  way 
of  salvation.  At  length,  being  quartered  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Oat  Hall,  a  pious  farmer  invited 
him  to  go  and  hear  a  very  famous  man  in  the  Hall 
preaching  for  Lady  Huntingdon.  It  was  Mr.  Ko- 
maine,  and  thither  he  went  to  hear  him  the  fol- 
lowing Sunday  ;  and  Mr.  Komaine's  text  was  as  if 
aimed  and  meant  for  the  very  condition  of  Scott's 
awakened  but  ignorant  soul.  It  was  the  words  of 
our  blessed  Lord  in  John,  xiv.  6,  "  I  am  the  Way." 
It  was  accompanied  by  the  Spirit  of  God,  and 
from  that  time  Captain  Scott  was  a  changed  man, 
and  speedily  began  to  preach  to  his  own  soldiers 
the  truth  which  he  had  learned  to  love.  He  ex- 
horted his  dragoons  daily,  and  would  not  be  deterred 
by  any  of  the  annoyances  and  opposition  which  he 
had  to  meet  in  the  army.  Fletcher  described  him 
to  Lady  Huntingdon  as  preaching  publicly  in  his 
regimentals  to  numerous  congregations  at  Leicester 
in  the  Methodist  Meeting-house.  "  This  red-coat," 
said  he,  "  will  shame  many  a  black  one.  I  am 
sure  he  shames  me."     At  length  he  sold  his  mili- 


54  OLD     ABRAHAM. 

tary  commission,  and  entered  into  the  ministry. 
For  twenty  years  he  was  one  of  the  preachers  at 
the  Tabernacle  in  London.  He  renounced  a'  bril- 
liant career  of  honor  and  advancement  in  this 
world  for  the  privilege,  which  had  become  dearer 
to  him  than  all  things  else,  of  preaching  Christ 
crucified  to  dying  sinners. 

The  second  of  these  instances  was  in  humbler 
life,  but  more  remarkable  still  for  the  great  age  of 
the  man  converted.  It  was  an  old  man  named 
Abraham,  who  for  fifty  years  was  a  common  sol- 
dier, and  getting  discharged  from  the  service,  set- 
tled with  his  wife  near  Oat  Hall.  When  Lady 
Huntingdon's  chapel  was  opened  at  Oat  Hall,  Abra- 
ham was  just  a  hundred  years  old ;  but  though 
of  that  great  age,  still  vigorous,  active,  and,  on  the 
subject  of  religion,  inquisitive,  and  at  the  opening 
of  the  new  chapel  he  made  up  his  mind  to  hear 
the  Methodists.  That  morning  Mr.  Venn  preached, 
and  that  was  the  hour  of  Abraham's  baptism  by 
the  Spirit.  Never  had  he  heard  such  truth,  never 
with  such  perception  of  it,  never  so  presented. 
"  This/'  said  he,  "  is  the  very  truth  of  God's  Word, 
which  I  have  been  seeking,  and  never  heard  it  so 
plain  before.  Here  will  I  abide."  From  that  time 
forward  old  Abraham  was  the  child  of  God,  grow- 
ing in  grace  and  in  the  knowledge  of  the  Saviour. 
He  lived  six  years  a  most  consistent  and  happy 
life  as  a  Christian  disciple  ;  and  his  great  age  and 


MISREPRESENTATIONS.  55 

heavenly  conversation  made  him  the  object  of 
veneration,  wonder,  and  love.  He  always  called 
the  day  when  he  heard  the  Gospel  from  Mr.  Venn's 
lips  the  day  of  his  birth,  and  spoke  of  himself,  in 
allusion  to  Isaiah,  lxv.  20,  as  the  child  born  a  hun- 
dred years  old.  We  know  of  only  one  similar 
instance  on  record,  the  case  of  the  aged  convert 
under  the  preaching  of  Flavel,  who  lived  to  adorn 
the  profession  of  his  faith  to  the  age  of  one  hun- 
dred and  fifteen  years. 

Extraordinary  cases  of  conversion  at  this  same 
period  when  Cowper's  saving  experience  of  the 
truth  began,  might  be  multiplied  ;  his  own  case 
was  but  one  of  a  series,  though  in  some  respects 
the  most  remarkable.  It  was  a  time  of  spiritual 
life  and  power,  and  every  class  of  society  in  En- 
gland felt  it,  notwithstanding  the  multitude  in 
every  circle  who  chose  to  take  to  themselves  that 
dread  malediction  upon  the  enemies  of  such  a 
work  of  grace,  Behold  ye  despisers,  and  wonder, 
and  perish  !  It  is  surprising  that  Southey  could 
have  allowed  himself  to  assume  and  perpetuate  such 
prejudice  and  scorn  ;  that  he  could  ascribe  (even  by 
insinuation)  the  piety  of  Lady  Huntingdon  to  here- 
ditary insanity,  and  deplore  the  failure  of  all  the  ef- 
forts of  established  dignitaries  in  the  Church  to  bring 
her  to  a  saner  sense  of  devotion  !  that  he  could 
regard  the  piety  of  Bunyan  as  the  fever  of  a  burn- 
ing enthusiasm,  and  speak  of  Cowper's  season  of 


56  CHARACTER     OF     W  H  I  T  E  F  I  E  L  D . 

personal  and  social  religious  enjoyment  as  having 
been  preposterously  called  the  happiest  period  of 
his  life  !  One  is  almost  tempted  to  exclaim,  he- 
holding  such  a  man  employed  with  such  a  spirit 
upon  the  wonders  of  providence  and  grace  devel- 
oped in  the  lives  of  such  men  as  Bunyan,  White- 
field,  Wesley,  and  Cowper,  "  What  hast  thou  to 
do  to  declare  God's  statutes,  or  that  thou  shouldst 
take  His  covenant  in  thy  mouth,  seeing  thou 
hatest  instruction  and  castest  His  words  behind 
thee  ?  Thou  sittest  and  speakest  against  thy 
brother  ;  thou  slanderest  thine  own  mother's  son." 
In  contrast  with  the  spirit  of  detraction  and  the 
license  of  literary  scorn,  how  beautiful  and  noble 
was  the  character  of  Whitefield,  as  drawn  by  Cow- 
per  in  one  of  the  earliest  published  of  his  poems, 
the  "  Essay  on  Hope."  It  was  twenty  years  after  his 
own  conversion,  and  twelve  years  after  Whitefield's 
death,  when  the  poet  penned  this  graphic  and  in- 
teresting portraiture.  Had  Cowper  drawn  the 
character  of  Wesley,  it  would  have  stood  to  all 
ages  in  the  same  Christian  light,  the  truthful,  un- 
exaggerated  testimonial  of  an  admiring,  grateful 
heart. 

Leuconomus — (beneath  well-sounding  Greek 
I  slur  a  name  a  poet  must  not  speak) — 
Stood  pilloried  on  infamy's  high  stage, 
And  bore  the  pelting  storm  of  half  an  age  ; 
The  very  butt  of  slander,  and  the  blot 
For  every  dart  that  malice  ever  shot. 


W  H  I  T  E  F  I  E  L  D  .  57 

The  man  that  mentioned  him  at  once  dismissed 
All  mercy  from  his  lips,  and  sneered  and  hissed. 
His  crimes  were  such  as  Sodom  never  knew, 
And  perjury  stood  up  to  swear  all  true  ; 
His  aim. was  mischief,  and  his  zeal  pretense  ; 
His  speech  rebellious  against  common  sense ; 
A  knave,  when  tried  on  honesty's  plain  rule, 
And  when  by  that  of  reason,  a  mere  fool ; 
The  world's  best  comfort  was,  his  doom  was  past, 
Die  when  he  might,  he  must  be  damned  at  last. 
Now,  Truth,  perform  thine  office ;  waft  aside 
The  curtain  drawn  by  prejudice  and  pride. 
Reveal  (the  man  is  dead)  to  wondering  eyes 
This  more  than  monster,  in  bis  proper  guise. 
He  loved  the  world  that  hated  him  ;  the  tear 
That  dropped  upon  his  Bible  was  sincere. 
Assailed  by  scandal,  and  the  tongue  of  strife, 
His  only  answer  was  a  blameless  life ; 
And  he  that  forged,  and  he  that  threw  the  dart, 
Had  each  a  brother's  interest  in  his  heart. 
Paul's  love  of  Christ,  and  steadiness  unbribed, 
Were  copied  close  in  him,  and  well  transcribed. 
He  followed  Paul,  his  zeal  a  kindred,  flame, 
His  apostolic  charity  the  same. 
Like  him  crossed  cheerfully  tempestuous  seas, 
Forsaking  country,  kindred,  friends,  and  ease. 
Like  him  he  labored,  and  like  him  content 
To  bear  it,  suffered  shame  where'er  he  went. 
Blush,  calumny,  and  write  upon  his  tomb, 
If  honest  eulogy  can  spare  the  room, 
The  deep  repentance  of  thy  thousand  lies 
"Which,  aimed  at  him,  have  pierced  the  offended  skies, 
And  say,  Blot  out  my  sin,  confessed,  deplored, 
Against  Thine  image  in  Thy  saint,  0  Lord  I 

Perhaps  the  Word  of  God  was  never  preached 
in  England  with  greater  unction  and  power,  cer- 
tainly never  with  more  wonderful  results,  than  by 
that  circle  of  preachers,  among-  whom  Whitefield, 


68  LAD  Y     II  U  X  TINODO  N  . 

Wesley,  Romaine,  Venn,  Berridge,  Toplady,  New- 
ton, Scott  and  Cecil,  held  so  conspicuous  a  posi- 
tion. The  piety  of  Lady  Huntingdon  was  a  spring 
of  impulse  and  of  influence  in  this  remarkable 
circle.  Never  was  there  a  brighter  manifestation 
of  divine  grace  in  the  female  character  than  in 
her's.  Her  family  was  one  of  the  foremost  in  the 
crowd  of  the  British  aristocracy,  at  a  period  when 
that  aristocracy  was  in  its  fullest  bloom  of  power, 
wealth  and  grandeur.  Cowper's  withdrawal  from 
that  splendid  social  circle,  of  which  at  one  time  it 
was  hoped  he  might  have  been  an  ornament,  was 
a  bitter  mortification  to  his  relatives  and  friends. 
They  assigned  his  gloom  and  madness  to  religious 
enthusiasm  as  its  cause,  when  religion  was  its  only 
cure.  It  is  not  so  singular  that  at  that  day  they 
should  have  labored  under  so  dark  a  delusion — a 
lunacy  ten  thousand-fold  worse  than  his  at  any 
period  of  its  disastrous  power  ;  but  that  a  biogra- 
pher and  historian,  himself  professedly  a  member 
of  the  Christian  Church,  should  have  insinuated 
hereditary  insanity  as  the  cause  of  Lady  Hunting- 
don's conversion,  and  Cowper's  conversion  as  the 
cause  of  his  insanity,  and  Newton's  faithful  and 
tender  instruction,  sympathy,  and  care  in  the 
duties  of  religion,  as  the  occasion  of  general  lunacy 
among  his  flock,  and  that  too  after  more  than  fifty 
years'  calm  judgment  of  the  age,  in  admiration  of 
the  providence  and  grace  of  God  in  the  lives  and 


OPPOSITION.  59 

religious  experience  of  those  personages,  is  sur- 
prising indeed.  Cowper's  pointed  and  severe  de- 
scription of  the  spirit  that  characterized  the  multi- 
tude in  his  age  is  applicable  to  not  a  few  in  ours. 

Build  by  whatever  plan  caprice  decrees, 
With  what  materials,  on  what  ground  you  please ; 
Your  hope  shall  stand  unblamed,  perhaps  admired, 
If  not  that  hope  the  Scripture  has  required. 
The  strange  conceits,  vain  projects,  and  wild  dreams 
With  which  hypocrisy  for  ever  teems, 
(Though  other  follies  strike  the  public  eye 
And  raise  a  laugh,)  pass  unmolested  by. 
But  if,  unblamable  in  word  and  thought, 
A  man  arise,  a  man  whom  God  has  taught, 
With  all  Elijah's  dignity  of  tone, 
And  all  the  love  of  the  beloved  John, 
To  storm  the  citadels  they  build  in  air, 
And  smite  th'  untempered  wall  'tis  death  to  spare, 
To  sweep  away  all  refuges  of  lies 
And  place,  intead  of  quirks  themselves  devise, 
Lama  Sabacthani  before  their  eyes ; 
To  prove  that  without  Christ  all  gain  is  loss, 
All  hope  despair,  that  stands  not  on  his  cross ; 
Except  the  few  his  God  may  have  impressed, 
A  tenfold  frenzy  seizes  all  the  rest. 

Throughout  mankind,  the  Christian  kind  at  least, 
There  dwells  a  consciousness  in  every  breast 
That  folly  ends  where  genuine  hope  begins, 
And  he  that  finds  his  heaven  must  lose  his  sins. 
Nature  opposes,  with  her  utmost  force, 
This  riving  stroke,  this  ultimate  divorce ; 
And,  while  religion  seems  to  be  her  view, 
Hates  with  a  deep  sincerity  the  true. 
For  this,  of  all  that  ever  influenced  man 
Since  Abel  worshiped,  or  the  world  began, 
This  only  spares  no  lust,  admits  no  plea, 
But  makes  him,  if  at  all,  completely  free ; 


GO 


OPPOSITION. 


Sounds  forth  the  signal,  as  she  mounts  her  car, 

Of  an  eternal,  universal  war  ; 

Rejects  all  treaty,  penetrates  all  wiles, 

Scorns  with  the  same  indifference  frowns  and  smiles  ; 

Drives  through  the  realms  of  sin,  where  riot  reels, 

And  grinds  his  crown  beneath  her  burning  wheels ! 

Hence  all  that  is  in  man,  pride,  passion,  art, 

Powers  of  the  mind,  and  feelings  of  the  heart, 

Insensible  of  truth's  almighty  charms, 

Starts  at  her  first  approach,  and  sounds  to  arms ! 

While  bigotry,  with  well-dissembled  fears, 

His  eyes  shut  fast,  his  fingers  in  his  ears, 

Mighty  to  parry  and  push  by  God's  "Word, 

With  senseless  noise,  his  argument  the  sword. 

Pretends  a  zeal  for  godliness  and  grace, 

And  spits  abhorrence  in  the  Christian's  face. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

LITERATURE  AND   GENU'S   OF  THE  PERIOD.'— PREVALENCE   OF 
SKEPTICISM. 

The  same  year,  1762,  may  be  taken  as  a  year 
of  survey,  in  regard  to  tlie  aspect  and  influences 
of  times,  circumstances,  society,  and  literature,  as 
well  as  religion.  It  was  about  twenty  years  after 
the  death  of  Pope,  forty-one  from  the  death  of 
Prior,  forty-three  from  that  of  Addison,  thirty- 
three  from  that  of  Steele,  seventeen  from  that  of 
Swift,  thirty  from  that  of  Gay,  thirty-six  from  that 
of  Vanbrugh,  and  thirty-nine  from  that  of  Con- 
greve.  Arbuthnot  died  in  1735,  Lord  Bolingbroke 
in  1751.  Some  of  these  writers  had  stamped  the 
manners  and  opinions  of  the  age  by  their  genius, 
and  formed  a  taste  and  style  then  fully  prevalent. 
Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu,  so  distinguished 
for  the  ease,  wit,  and  beauty  of  her  letters,  died  in 
1762.  Lord  Shaftesbury  had  died  in  1713,  and 
the  collection  of  his  works  had  been  published  in 
1716  ;  and  the  powerful  influence  which  the  min- 
gled fascination  of  his  style  and  deistical  opinions 


62  LITERATURE      AND     G  E  NIL'S 

exerted  in  various  directions  may  be  learned  in  the 
autobiographies  of  two  men  as  contra-distinguished 
as  Dr.  Franklin  and  John  Newton,  both  having 
been  brought,  at  an  early  period,  under  a  tempo- 
rary despotism  beneath  that  nobleman's  writings. 

Atterbury  died  in  1731,  Defoe  in  the  same  year. 
Bishop  Berkely  died  in  1753;  Bishop  Lowth,  1787; 
Dr.  Samuel  Clarke,  1729  ;  Bishop  Butler,  1752  ; 
Handel,  1759;  Garrick,  1779.  Hannah  More  was 
bom  1745,  and  commenced  her  literary  career  when 
Cowper  was  writing  the  Olney  Hymns.  Among 
the  most  celebrated  divines  of  the  period  were 
Bishop  Newton,  Farmer,  Lardner,  Lowman,  Lowth, 
Leland,  Chandler,  Warburton,  Jortin,  Hoadly, 
Wesley,  Whitefield,  John  Newton,  Soame  Jenyns, 
Scott,  Kennicott,  and  Cecil. 

The  period  we  are  contemplating  was  fourteen 
years  after  the  death  of  Thomson,  and  thirty  years 
since  the  publication  of  the  Poem  of  the  Seasons. 
It  was  fourteen  years  after  the  death  of  Watts. 
It  was  just  after  the  publication  of  Young's  "Night 
Thoughts."  "  Blair's  Grave"  had  been  published  in 
1743,  the  "Night  Thoughts"  in  1760.  Yet  Southey 
has  spoken  of  "  The  Grave"  as  a  poem  written  in 
imitation  of  the  "Night  Thoughts"  ;  a  criticism 
which  indicates  the  carelessness  and  haste  with 
which  some  other  portion  of  his  "Life  of  Cowper" 
may  have  been  composed.  Dr.  Johnson  had  pub- 
lished his  Dictionary  in  17;~>4.  and  his  Rasselassoon 


OF      THE      PERIOD.  63 

after.  It  was  three  or  four  years  after  the  publi- 
cation of  Gray's  Odes.  It  was  just  after  the  pub- 
lication of  Goldsmith's  "  Citizen  of  the  World/'  and 
just  before  the  appearance  of  his  poem  of  u  The 
Traveler."  It  was  the  year  before  the  death  of 
Shenstone.  It  was  eight  years  after  the  death  of 
Collins,  the  poet  so  nearly  at  one  time  resembling 
Cowper  in  the  dread  eclipse  of  reason  under  which 
he  died,  and  in  his  inimitably  exquisite  poetry, 
coming  nearer,  in  every  line,  to  the  perfection  of 
Cowper  in  his  most  harmonious  pieces,  than  any 
other  poet  in  the  English  language.  Chatterton, 
the  marvelous  boy  that  perished  in  his  pride, 
was  at  this  time  ten  years  old,  and  began  his  sad, 
strange,  poetical  career  only  one  year  afterward. 
Churchill  was  in  the  brief  bonfire  of  reputation, 
and  had  just  published  his  "  Rosciad."  The  admira- 
tion of  his  poems  was  like  the  gaze  of  a  crowd  at 
a  display  of  fire-works  from  the  top  of  the  London 
Monument.  Falconer  had  just  published  his 
"  Shipwreck,"  and  it  was  the  year  of  the  publica- 
tion of  MTherson's  "  Fingal." 

Edmund  Burke  had  published  his  "  Essay  on 
the  Sublime  and  Beautiful,"  but  had  not  yet  en- 
tered Parliament,  nor  began  that  development  of 
his  wonderful  genius  which  afterward  attracted  the 
gaze  of  all  Europe.  Garrick  and  Foote  were  in 
the  midst  of  their  fame,  and  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds 
of  his.     The  Johnsonian  Club  and  circle  were  in 


64  LITERATURE     AND     GENIUS 

the  first  zest  of  their  social  and  literary  enjoyment. 
It  was  the  year  after  the  death  of  Richardson,  the 
novelist.  Smollet,  Fielding,  Mackenzie,  Horace 
Walpole,  Mr.  Beckford,  Mrs.  Inchbald,  Mrs.  Rad- 
cliffe,  Miss  Burney,  and  some  others,  had  opened, 
or  were  striking  out,  various  new  paths  in  that  wil- 
derness of  fiction  in  which  the  main  body  of  readers 
in  our  world  have  since  been  wandering,  delighted 
and  absorbed  ;  paths  that  some  of  them,  if  pursued, 
lead  to  inevitable  ruin.  It  was  three  years  after 
the  publication  of  Robertson's  "  History  of  Scot- 
land," and  the  year  of  the  publication  of  the  two 
last  volumes  of  Hume's  "  History  of  England." 
Adam  Smith's  "  Theory  of  Moral  Sentiments"  had 
been  published  in  1759.  Sir  William  Blackstone 
was  in  the  midst  of  his  eminent  reputation  and 
service  in  the  law  ;  his  "  Commentaries"  were  pub- 
lished in  1765.  Reid's  "  Inquiry  into  the  Human 
Understanding"  was  published  in  1764  ;  Lord 
Karnes's  "  Elements  of  Criticism"  in  1762.  The 
first  edition  of  Percy's  "  Reliques  of  Ancient  En- 
glish Poetry"  was  published,  1765.  The  first  vol- 
ume of  Warburton's  "  Divine  Legation"  was  pub- 
lished in  1738,  the  last  not  till  1788,  after  the 
author's  death.  Matthew  Tindal's  "  Christianity 
as  Old  as  the  Creation"  was  published  not  long 
before  the  "  Divine  Legation  ;"  and  that  deistical 
controversy  arose  out  of  it  in  which  Dr.  Waterland 
and   Dr.   Conyers   Middleton   took   an  important 


OF      THE      PKHIOD.  05 

part.  Middleton's  "Life  of  Cicero"  was  first 
published  about  1740,  and  Leland's  "  Deistical 
Writers"  near  the  same  period.  Neal's  "  History 
of  the  Puritans"  was  published,  the  two  first 
volumes  in  1733.  The  fourth  edition  of  War- 
burton's  work  was  dedicated,  in  1765,  to  Lord 
Mansfield,  then  and  for  many  years  the  Lord 
Chief  Justice  of  England. 

Until  the  publication  of  the  poem  of  the  "  Night 
Thoughts,"  there  had  been,  for  near  three  quarters 
of  a  century,  little  intrusion  of  religion  into  what 
was  called  Polite  Literature  ;  but  the  world  had 
seen  the  influence  of  a  witty,  licentious,  and  infidel 
literature  passing  into  what  was  called  religion. 
They  had  seen  simplicity  and  nature  retire  before 
the  tinsel  and  the  blaze  of  art  enshrined  by  ge- 
nius, and  worshiped  with  idolatrous  devotion. 
Formalism  had  taken  the  place  of  true  piety  ; 
fervor  was  ridiculed  as  fanaticism,  faith  despised 
as  superstition,  and  superstition  exalted  into  the 
place  of  faith.  Deism  and  Socinianism  had  pre- 
vailed under  the  robes  of  the  priesthood  of  the 
Church  of  England,  and  were  encountered,  if  at 
all,  with  cold,  elaborate,  artificial  learning,  in  the 
shape  of  cumbrous  Essays,  of  which  the  collection 
of  Tracts  by  Watson  in  five  octavo  volumes  is  a 
favorable  specimen.  When  Whitefield  and  Wes- 
ley began  their  impetuous  and  shining  career,  re- 
ligion was  at  a  low  ebb  indeed  in  the  Church  and 


66        PREVALENCE     OF     SKEFTICIS  M . 

among  tlie  people  of  England.  Bishop  Butler 
presented  his  "  Analogy"  to  the  queen  in  173G, 
and  in  the  prefatory  advertisement  to  that  profound 
and  powerful  work  he  was  constrained  to  write  as 
follows  :  "  It  is  come,  I  know  not  how,  to  he  taken 
for  granted,  by  many  persons,  that  Christianity  is 
not  so  much  as  a  subject  of  inquiry  ;  but  that  it  is 
now  at  length  discovered  to  be  fictitious.  And  ac- 
cordingly they  treat  it  as  if,  in  the  present  age, 
this  were  an  agreed  point  among  all  people  of  dis- 
cernment, and  nothing  remained  but  to  set  it  up 
as  a  principal  subject  of  mirth  and  ridicule,  as  it 
were  by  way  of  reprisals  for  its  having  so  long  in- 
terrupted the  pleasures  of  the  world." 

And  at  the  close  of  that  great  work  he  said,  "  If 
men  can  go  on  to  vilify  or  disregard  Christianity, 
which  is  to  talk  and  act  as  if  they  had  a  demon- 
stration of  its  falsehood,  there  is  no  reason  to  think 
they  would  alter  their  behavior  to  any  purpose, 
though  there  were  a  demonstration  of  its  truth." 
There  ivas  a  practical  demonstration,  in  the  out- 
pouring of  the  Divine  Spirit  attending  the  preach- 
ing of  Whitefield  and  Wesley,  such  as  had  not 
been  witnessed  since  the  days  of  Pentecost ;  but 
the  demonstration  itself  was  maligned  and  blas- 
phemed by  many,  as  the  casting  out  of  devils  by 
Beelzebub. 

Cowper  says  himself,  in  one  of  his  letters  to  a 
dear  religious  friend  in  1767,  "  My  religious  prin- 


PREVALENCE     OF      SKEPTICISM.        67 

ciples  are  generally  excepted  against,  and  the  con- 
duct they  produce,  wherever  they  are  heartily 
maintained,  is  still  more  the  object  of  disapproba- 
tion than  the  principles  themselves."  In  a  previ- 
ous letter  to  Lady  Hesketh,  he  had  said,  "  Solitude 
has  nothing  gloomy  in  it,  if  the  soul  points  upward. 
St.  Paul  tells  his  Hebrew  converts,  '-Ye  are  come 
(already  come)  to  Mount  Sion,  to  an  innumerable 
company  of  angels,  to  the  general  assembly  of  the 
first-born,  which  are  written  in  heaven,  and  to 
Jesus  the  mediator  of  the  new  covenant/  When 
this  is  the  case,  as  surely  it  was  with  them,  or  the 
Spirit  of  Truth  had  never  spoken  it,  there  is  an 
end  of  the  melancholy  and  dullness  of  life  at  once. 
...  A  lively  faith  is  able  to  anticipate  in  some 
measure  the  joys  of  that  heavenly  society  which 
the  soul  shall  actually  possess  hereafter.  .  .  .  My 
dear  cousin,  one  half  of  the  Christian  world  would 
call  this  madness,  fanaticism  and  folly.  .  .  .  Let 
us  see  that  we  do  not  deceive  ourselves  in  a  matter 
of  such  infinite  moment." 

If  one  half  the  Christian  world  had  got  so  turned 
away  from  life  into  the  frost  and  death  of  formal- 
ism, with  little  or  nothing  of  life  left  but  just 
enough  for  the  demonstration  of  bitterness  and 
opposition  against  what  were  called  the  doctrines 
of  grace,  and  in  ridicule  of  the  style  of  fervent 
piety  called  Methodism,  how  deplorable  an  influ- 
ence must  have  reigned  in  the  world  of  popular 


68         PREVALENCE     OF     SKEPTICISM. 

and  fashionable  literature  !  No  wonder  that  a 
sarcastic  and  haughty  deism,  and  the  frigidity 
and  carelessness  of  natural  religion  maintained  so 
great  and  wide  a  supremacy.  The  idea  of  conver- 
sion by  the  grace  of  God  was  scoffed  at,  was  re- 
garded as  enthusiasm  or  fanaticism,  assuming, 
indeed,  a  mild  and  melancholy  type  in  an  amiable 
man  such  as  Cowper,  but  still  a  self-righteous, 
presumptuous,  conceited  form  of  spiritual  bigotry 
and  pride.  In  such  a  period,  great  was  the  need 
of  instruments  to  be  raised  up  and  prepared  like 
Cowper,  Hannah  More  and  Wilberforce,  to  carry 
the  powerful  voice  of  truth  into  the  drawing-rooms 
of  the  great,  the  gay,  and  the  fashionable,  and  to 
set  Christianity  itself,  in  its  simplest  Gospel  dress, 
amid  the  attractions  of  science,  genius,  and  lite- 
rary taste. 


CHAPTER    V. 

TUS  ARREST  OF  COWPER. — PROVIDENCES  AND  DISCIPLINE  OF  TRIAL 
BY  WHICH  HE  WAS  AWAKENED. — HIS  ATTEMPT  AT  SUICIDE. — HIS 
CONVICTION  OF  SIN. — HIS  ANGUISH  AND  DESPAIR. 

The  great  event  of  Cowper's  conversion  made  a 
change  in  his  whole  life  and  social  circle,  such  as 
no  temporary  insanity,  had  he  recovered  from  it  in 
any  other  way  than  that  of  a  religious  faith  by  Di- 
vine grace,  could  have  effected.  It  broke  up  all 
his  habits,  and  removed  him  forever  from  the  gay 
and  dissipated  companions,  in  whose  society  so 
many  years  of  the  best  part  of  his  life  had  already 
been  spent.  "  The  storm  of  sixty- three,"  as  Cow- 
per  designated  the  period  of  his  terrific  gloom  and 
madness  at  St.  Alban's,  made  a  wreck  of  the 
friendships  of  many  years,  and  he  said  that  he  had 
great  reason  to  be  thankful  that  he  had  lost  none 
of  his  acquaintances  but  those  whom  he  had  deter- 
mined not  to  keep.  He  refers,  in  his  letters,  to 
some  of  them  who  had  been  suddenly  arrested  by 
death,  while  he  himself  was  passing  through  the 
valley  of  the  shadow  of  death  in  the  lunatic  asy- 


70  THE     ARREST. 

lum.  "Two  of  my  friends  have  been  cut  off  dur- 
ing my  illness,  in  the  midst  of  such  a  life  as  it  is 
frightful  to  reflect  upon ;  and  here  am  I  in  better 
health  and  spirits  than  I  can  almost  remember  to 
have  enjoyed  before,  after  having  spent  months  in 
the  apprehension  of  instant  death.  How  mysteri- 
ous are  the  ways  of  Providence  !  Why  did  I  re- 
ceive grace  and  mercy  ?  Why  was  I  preserved, 
afflicted  for  my  good,  received,  as  I  trust,  into  fa- 
vor, and  blessed  with  the  greatest  happiness  I  can 
ever  know  or  hope  for  in  this  life,  while  they  were 
overtaken  by  the  great  arrest,  unawakened,  unre- 
penting,  and  every  way  unprepared  for  it  ?  His 
infinite  wisdom,  to  whose  infinite  mercy  I  owe  it 
all,  can  solve  these  questions,  and  none  beside 
Him."  One  of  these  friends  cut  off  so  unexpect- 
edly, was  poor  Kobert  Lloyd  the  poet,  son  of  Eev. 
Dr.  Lloyd,  one  of  the  teachers  at  Westminster 
School.  They  had  been  among  Cowper's  intimate 
associates  in  the  Nonsense  Club,  with  Bonnel 
Thornton,  George  Colman,  and  others  of  a  like 
convivial  character.  No  wonder  at  the  feelings  of 
gratitude  and  amazement  with  which  he  looked 
back  at  his  own  danger,  and  at  the  supernatural 
suddenness  and  violence  of  his  escape. 

In  1762  the  revolutionary  chain  of  events  in 
Cowpcr's  existence  began,  and  his  character  and 
life  were  together  arrested  and  turned  back  from 
an  earthly  into  a  heavenly  career.     He  had  glided 


FALSE     PEACE.  71 

on  through  life  thus  far,  till  he  was  thirty-one 
years  of  age,  a  fine  classical  scholar,  a  man  of  ex- 
quisite refined  taste,  an  amiable,  playful,  affection- 
ate temper,  a  deep  humorous  vein,  and  a  disposi- 
tion for  social  amusement,  as  well  as  a  tendency 
to  mental  depression,  that  led  him  to  seek  the  en- 
joyment of  society  for  relief.  He  had  neither  re- 
ligious habit  nor  principle,  but  had  come  to  an 
acquiescence,  with  which  he  says  he  had  settled 
down,  in  the  following  conclusion  as  to  the  future 
life,  namely,  "  that  the  only  course  he  could  take 
to  secure  his  present  peace  was  to  wink  hard  against 
the  prospect  of  future  misery,  and  to  resolve  to 
banish  all  thoughts  upon  a  subject  on  which  he 
thought  to  so  little  purpose." 

To  icink  hard  against  the  prospect  of  future 
misery  !  How  graphic  a  picture  of  the  struggle 
in  a  careless,  prayerless,  pleasure-loving  heart, 
against  partial  conviction  and  anxiety  in  regard  to 
the  retributions  of  a  future  state.  This  winking 
hard  against  the  prospects  of  future  misery  is,  we 
apprehend,  the  only  religious  effort  of  many  a 
mind,  and  the  only  step  of  many  a  disturbed  and 
frightened  conscience  toward  peace.  Some  persons 
wink  so  hard,  that  the  effect  is  like  that  produced 
by  a  blow  upon  the  temples,  or  a  strong,  sudden 
pressure  over  the  eye-balls,  making  the  eyes  flash 
fire.  Strange  radiances  appear  in  these  eye-flashes, 
which  some  are  willing  to  accept  as  revelations, 


72  SPIRITUAL     SLEEP-WALKERS. 

when  they  have  rejected  the  Word  of  God,  or  so 
utterly  neglected  it,  as  to  be  quite  ignorant  of  its 
actual  details  in  reference  to  the  future  world. 

If  the  soul  were  suddenly  illuminated,  in  the 
midst  of  its  carelessness  and  unbelief,  to  see  and 
feel  things  as  they  are,  terror  would  take  posses- 
sion of  the  conscience  and  the  heart,  and  all  insen- 
sibility would  pass  away  forever.  But  we  are 
often  as  men  in  a  trance,  or  as  persons  walking  in 
their  sleep,  and  conscious  of  nothing.  Sleep- 
walkers are  never  terrified,  even  by  dangers  that 
would  take  from  a  waking  man  all  his  self-posses- 
sion. Sleep-walkers  have  been  known  to  balance 
themselves  upon  the  topmost  ridge  of  the  most 
perilous  heights,  with  as  much  indifference  and 
security  as  if  they  were  walking  upon  even  ground. 
They  have  been  seen  treading  at  the  eaves  of  lofty 
buildings,  and  bending  over,  and  looking  down 
into  the  street,  making  the  gazers,  who  have  dis- 
covered the  experiment,  tremble  with  fright,  and 
grow  faint  with  expectation  ;  and  if  the  trance 
should  suddenly  pass  away,  and  the  waking  sense 
be  restored,  the  self-discovery  would  prove  fatal, 
and  the  man  would  lose  his  balance  and  fall, 
where  before  he  trod  with  perfect  indifference  and 
security.  Just  so  to  the  quickened  sight  and  con- 
science of  spiritual  spectators,  careless  sinners  are 
beheld  walking  asleep  and  indifferent  on  the  verge 
of  the  world  of  woe.     They  bend  over  toward  the 


THE    AWAKENING.  73 

flaming  gulf,  and  if  they  saw  and  felt  what  it  is 
they  are  doing,  what  dreadful  hazard  they  are 
running,  there  would,  for  the  time,  be  no  more  life 
in  them.  The  consciousness  of  meeting  a  holy 
God,  and  the  thought  of  what  was  before  them, 
would  fill  their  minds  with  anguish,  which  nothing 
but  the  blood  of  Christ,  nothing  but  a  heartfelt, 
humble  application  of  the  soul  for  God's  mercy, 
through  Christ,  nothing  but  the  faith  and  hope  of 
forgiveness,  could  possibly  allay. 

Through  this  process  of  awakening,  and  terror, 
Cowper  was  to  pass  to  life  and  peace  eternal, 
though  reason  itself  was  to  be  dethroned,  for  a 
short  period,  in  the  dreadful  conflict.  But  God's 
time  of  interposing  mercy  had  come.  Cowper  had 
now  nearly  spent  what  little  patrimony  .had  fallen 
to  him,  and  began  to  be  in  want  ;  under  fear  of 
want,  he  began  to  desire  an  appointment.  Here 
occurs  a  passage  in  his  autobiography  which  the 
writers  of  his  life  long  concealed  studiously  from 
notice,  and  continued  to  ignore  its  existence,  even 
when  it  had  been  printed,  and  even  garbled  it  in 
printing  it  themselves.  Hayley  ran  over  the  pass- 
age by  saying  that  Cowper,  in  this  emergency, 
had  prospects  of  emolument  by  the  interest  of  his 
family,  and  was  nominated  to  the  offices  of  Read- 
ing Clerk,  and  Clerk  of  the  Private  Committees 
in  the  House  of  Lords.  Now  let  Cowper,  as  a 
grateful  child  of  God,  showing  us  from  what 
4 


74  BEL  r  -.1  D  DOM  i;  N  T. 

depths  of  guilt  and  misery  he  had  been  rescued, 
open  the  door  of  his  own  heart,  or  a  window  in 
it,  and  tell  us  what  was  going  on,  with  his  own 
mature  and  devout  judgment  upon  the  transac- 
tions ;  a  judgment  severer,  certainly,  than  a  man 
of  the  world  would  ever  pass  upon  mere  motives, 
but  nevertheless  the  self-judgment  of  a  mind  and 
heart,  looking  back  from  a  state  of  calm  and 
heavenly  peace  with  God,  over  a  life  that  had 
been  passed  without  him. 

Under  some  imagination  or  apprehension  of  ap- 
proaching want,  Cowper  says,  "  I  one  day  said  to 
a  friend  of  mine,  if  the  Clerk  of  the  Journals  of 
the  House  of  Lords  should  die,  I  had  some  hopes 
that  my  kinsman,  who  had  the  place  in  his  dis- 
posal, would  think  of  and  appoint  me  to  succeed 
him.  We  both  agreed  that  the  business  of  the 
place,  being  transacted  in  private,  would  exactly 
suit  me  ;  and  both  expressed  an  earnest  ivish  for 
his  death,  that  I  might  be  provided  for.  Thus 
did  I  covet  what  God  had  commanded  me  not  to 
covet,  and  involved  myself  in  still  deeper  guilt,  by 
doing  it  in  the  spirit  of  a  murderer." 

It  was  remarkable  that  very  speedily  this  Clerk 
of  the  Journals  of  the  House  died,  and  two  other 
offices  by  the  same  event  fell  vacant,  being  in  the 
gift  of  Major  Cowper,  the  poet's  friend  and  kins- 
man. These  two  offices  of  Beading  Clerk,  and 
Clerk  of  the  Committee,  being  the  most  profitable 


FEARS    AND     PERPLEXITIES.  75 

places,  were  at  once  offered  to  Cowper,  and  he 
immediately,  without  a  moment's  reflection,  ac- 
cepted them  ;  but  at  the  same  time,  as  it  pleased 
Grod,  "received  a  dagger  in  his  heart,"  and  began 
to  be  deeply  perplexed  by  the  impossibility  of 
executing  a  business  of  so  public  a  nature.  After 
a  week  spent  in  misery,  he  besought  his  friend  to 
give  him  the  simple  Clerkship  of  the  Journals, 
instead  of  the  higher  situation,  and,  when  this 
exchange  was  accomplished,  he  began  to  be  some- 
what at  ease. 

But  a  new  difficulty  arose,  for  Major  Cowper's 
right  to  nominate  his  kinsman  being  disputed,  and 
a  powerful  party  formed  in  favor  of  another  can- 
didate, every  inch  of  ground  had  to  be  contested  ; 
there  must  be  an  examination  at  the  Bar  of  the 
House,  and  Cowper  had  to  visit  the  Journal  Office 
daily,  in  order  to  qualify  himself  for  the  strictest 
scrutiny.  This  brought  back  the  whole  horror  of 
his  fears  and  perplexities.  He  knew  to  a  demon- 
stration that  upon  these  terms  the  Clerkship  of 
the  Journals  was  no  place  for  him.  Nevertheless, 
his  friend's  honor  and  interest,  and  his  own  repu- 
tation and  circumstances,  made  it  seem  absolutely 
necessary  that  he  should  persevere,  and  did  indeed 
urge  him  forward,  though  only  as  a  fettered 
criminal  is  dragged  to  execution.  "  They  whose 
spirits  are  formed  like  mine,"  says  he  in  his  own 
journal  of  these  occurrences,  "  to  whom  a  public 


76  FEVER     OF     THE     NERVES. 

exhibition  of  themselves  on  any  occasion  is  mortal 
poison,  may  have  some  idea  of  the  horror  of  my 
situation  ;  others  can  have  none.  My  continual 
misery  at  length  brought  on  a  nervous  fever  ; 
quiet  forsook  me  by  day,  and  peace  by  night.  A 
finger  raised  against  me  was  more  than  I  could 
stand  against/' 

In  this  distressing  condition  he  went  daily  to 
the  Journal  Office,  and  read,  in  preparation  for  his 
examination,  like  a  man  beneath  the  nightmare. 
All  the  inferior  clerks  were  under  the  influence  of 
the  opposing  candidate,  so  that  from  them  he 
could  gain  no  assistance,  nor  in  this  condition  of 
mind  would  it  have  availed  him  in  the  least,  for 
he  turned  over  the  leaves  as  an  automaton,  with 
a  perfect  bewilderment  and  vacuity,  as  one  under 
the  power  of  a  spell ;  and  this  habit  he  continued, 
studying  without  perception,  understanding,  or 
instruction,  and,  in  fact,  in  absolute,  uninterrupted 
despair,  every  day  for  more  than  half  a  year. 

Now  here  was  enough  to  make  almost  any  man 
insane,  and  it  is  wonderful  that  Cowper's  mind  did 
not  sooner  give  way  under  this  process.  It  is  sur- 
prising that  he  could  persevere  so  long  in  this  mode 
of  life,  and  keep  up  the  appearance  of  hope  and 
cheerfulness.  And  yet  there  is  a  most  playful  let- 
ter on  record,  written  to  Lady  Hesketh,  in  the  very 
midst  of  ail  this  torture.  An  absence  at  Margate, 
with  the  intermission  of  his  painful  employments, 


SELF-TORTURE.  77 

and  a  season  of  social  enjoyment  in  a  new  scene, 
helped  him  to  recover  his  spirits  ;  but  still  the  ter- 
rible crisis  was  before  him,  and  in  October  he  had 
to  return  to  the  office  and  renew  his  ineffectual  la- 
bor, pressed  by  necessity  on  either  side,  with  noth- 
ing but  despair  in  prospect. 

For  this  was  the  dilemma  to  which  now  his  sen- 
sitive mind  was  reduced,  either  to  keep  possession 
of  the  office,  and  contest  it  to  the  last  extremity, 
and  by  so  doing  expose  himself  to  a  public  rejection 
for  incompetency,  or  else  to  renounce  it  at  once, 
and  thus  run  the  hazard  of  ruining  his  benefactor's 
right  of  appointment.  The  anguish  of  his  perplex- 
ity was  such  that  sometimes  in  a  fit  of  passion 
when  alone,  he  would  cry  out  aloud,  and  curse  the 
hour  of  his  birth,  lifting  up  his  eyes  to  heaven  and 
exclaiming,  "  What  sin  have  I  committed  to  de- 
serve this  ?"  He  could  not  pray,  and  would  not 
attempt  it,  being  firmly  persuaded  that  God  would 
not  deliver  him.  But  he  consulted  Dr.  Heberden, 
his  physician,  and  dosed  himself  with  drugs  ;  and 
having  found  a  prayer  or  two  in  what  he  called 
"  that  repository  of  self-righteousness  and  pharisa- 
ical  lumber,  <  The  Whole  Duty  of  Man/  "  he  re- 
peated them  a  few  nights,  and  then  threw  away 
the  book  and  all  thoughts  of  God  and  of  a  remedy 
with  it.  His  wretchedness  was  past  hope  and 
effort. 

And  now  it  could  not  be  otherwise,  these  things 


78  ATTEMPTS     AT 

continuing,  than  that  the  coil  of  his  misery,  inde- 
cision, and  despair,  should  rapidly  run  his  mind, 
down  to  madness.  He  had,  indeed,  a  strong  fore- 
boding of  it,  and  began  to  look  upon  madness  as 
his  only  chance  remaining.  So  earnestly  did  he 
desire  it,  that  his  grand  fear  now  was  that  the 
failure  of  his  senses  would  not  come  in  time  to  ex- 
cuse his  appearance  at  the  bar,  and  prevent  the 
trial  for  the  clerkship.  But  he  was  still  in  his 
senses  as  the  day  drew  near  ;  and  amid  the  flashes 
in  the  stormy  horizon  of  his  soul  in  that  terrible 
tempest,  the  dark  and  dreadful  purpose  of  self- 
murder  began  to  disclose  itself,  at  first  dim,  murky, 
and  vanishing,  then  fixed  and  intimate,  and  enter- 
tained without  shuddering.  He  began  to  reason 
that  perhaps  there  might  be  no  God,  or  the  Scrip- 
tures might  be  false,  and  suicide  nowhere  forbid- 
den, or  that  at  the  worst  his  misery  in  hell  itself 
would  be  more  supportable.  Probably  the  state 
of  mind  of  a  self-murderer  never  before  was  dis- 
closed with  such  dreadful  truth  and  reality,  if 
disclosed  at  all. 

At  first  he  resorted  to  laudanum,  and  one  day 
in  November  1763,  purchased  a  bottle  of  the  poi- 
son, which  he  kept  by  him  for  a  week,  but  was 
providentially  by  one  interposition  after  another, 
preserved  from  accomplishing  his  purpose.  At 
length  the  very  morning  before  the  day  appointed 
for  his  public  appearance  at  the  bar  of  the  house, 


SELF-DESTRUCTION.  79 

he  took  up  a  newspaper  in  Kichards's  Coffee  House, 
where  he  was  at  breakfast,  and  read  in  it  a  letter 
which,  in  his  disordered  state  of  mind,  seemed  to 
him  a  libel  intended  for  himself,  and  written  by- 
one  acquainted  with  his  circumstances,  on  purpose 
to  hurry  him  on  to  the  suicide  he  was  contemplat- 
ing. In  reality  this  delusion,  itself  sufficient  proof 
that  already  he  was  insane,  had  that  effect ;  and 
after  several  ineffectual  attempts,  he  arose  the 
next  morning,  hearing  the  clock  strike  seven,  and 
knowing  that  no  more  time  was  to  be  lost,  bolted 
the  inner  door  of  his  chamber,  as  he  thought,  and 
proceeded  deliberately  to  the  work  of  hanging  him- 
self by  means  of  a  garter  made  of  a  broad  piece  of 
scarlet  binding  with  sliding  buckles.  He  strained 
the  noose  tightly  around  his  neck,  and  fastened  it 
to  the  top  of  the  bed-frame,  but  the  iron  bent  and 
let  him  down.  A  second  time  he  fastened  it,  but 
the  frame  broke  short,  and  he  fell  again.  A  third 
time  he  fastened  it  on  an  angle  of  the  door,  and 
pushing  away  the  chair  with  his  feet,  hung  at  his 
whole  length,  till  he  lost  all  consciousness  of  exist- 
ence, and  knew  nothing,  till  a  feeling  like  that  pro- 
duced by  a  flash  of  lightning  passed  over  his  whole 
body,  and  he  found  himself  fallen  on  his  face  upon 
the  floor.  The  blood  had  stagnated  under  his  eye, 
but  by  the  mercy  of  God  the  cord  broke  before  the 
strangulation  was  completed,  and  Cowper  was 
saved. 


80  CONVICTIONS     UK     GUILT. 

And  now  ensued  the  most  overwhelming  convic- 
tion of  guilt,  though  up  to  this  time  he  had  felt 
no  anxiety  of  a  spiritual  kind  ;  the  attempt  at 
self-murder  harrowed  up  his  conscience,  and  a 
sense  of  God's  wrath,  and  a  deep  despair  of  escap- 
ing it,  instantly  succeeded.  The  terrors  of  the 
Lord  and  his  own  iniquities  set  themselves  in  array 
against  him.  Every  approach  to  the  Scriptures  was 
but  an  increase  of  his  anguish,  and  as  in  the  case 
of  Bunyan,  the  sword  of  the  Spirit  seemed  to  guard 
the  tree  of  life  from  his  touch,  and  flamed  against 
him  in  even'  avenue  of  access.  He  was  scared 
with  visions  and  terrified  with  dreams,  and  by  day 
and  by  night  experienced  a  continual  agony  of  soul. 
In  every  book  that  he  took  up  he  found  something 
that  struck  him  to  the  heart,  and  if  he  went  into 
the  street,  he  thought  the  people  stared  and 
laughed  at  him,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  voice  of 
his  own  conscience  was  so  loud  that  others  must 
hear  it.  He  bought  a  ballad  of  a  person  who  was 
singing  it  in  the  street,  because  he  thought  it  was 
written  on  himself.  He  now  began  to  imagine 
that  he  had  committed  the  unpardonable  sin,  and 
in  this  conviction  gave  himself  up  anew  to  despair. 
He  says  that  he  felt  a  sense  of  burning  in  his  heart 
like  that  of  real  fire,  and  concluded  it  was  an  earn- 
est of  those  eternal  flames  which  would  soon  re- 
ceive him.  In  this  condition  he  remembered  the 
kindness  and  piety  of  his  friend  the  Rev.  Martin 


I  N  T  E  R  V  I  E  W     W.TH     KB.     MADAN.        81 

Madan,  and  sent  for  him  ;  for  though  he  used  to 
think  him  an  enthusiast,  yet  in  this  extremity  of 
spiritual  distress  he  felt  that  if  any  one  could  lead 
and  comfort  him,  it  must  be  he.  The  good  man 
brought  him  to  the  all-atoning  blood  of  Christ, 
and  presented  the  way  of  salvation  in  a  manner  so 
simple,  scriptural  and  affecting,  that  Cowper  wept 
freely  with  a  sense  of  his  ingratitude,  and  deplored 
his  want  of  faith. 

Cowper's  brother  from  Cambridge  was  with  him 
during  that  interview  with  Mr.  Madan.  Most  af- 
fectionately had  Cowper's  brother  tried  to  comfort 
him,  but  in  vain,  though  pierced  to  the  heart  at  the 
sight  of  such  anguish  and  despair  as  he  found  him 
in.  Mr.  Madan  and  Cowper  sat  on  the  bed-side 
together,  and  he  affectionately  presented  the  Gos- 
pel to  the  gloomy  sufferer,  beginning  with  the  lost 
condition  of  the  sinner  against  God,  as  presented 
in  his  Word.  In  this  Cowper  says  he  began  to  feel 
something  like  hope  dawning  in  his  heart,  for  since 
the  condition  of  all  mankind  was  the  same,  it 
seemed  to  make  his  own  state  appear  less  desperate. 
Then,  when  presenting  the  all-atoning  efficacy  of 
the  blood  of  Christ  and  his  righteousness  for  our 
justification,  from  the  same  precious  Scriptures, 
Cowper's  heart  began  to  burn  within  him,  and  his 
tears  flowed  freely.  It  was  only  when  Mr.  Madan 
came  to  the  necessity,  on  Cowper's  own  part,  of  a 
personal  faith  in  the  Lord  Jesus,  such  as  would 


8*2  A  B  S  0  L  U  T  K     INSANITY 

embrace  Christ  as  Paul  had  done,  and  say,  '  Who 
loved  me,  and  gave  Himself  for  me/  that  Cowper 
found  his  heart  failing,  and  deplored  his  want  of 
such  a  faith,  and  could  only  sigh  forth  the  prayer 
that  God,  whose  gift  it  was,  might  bestow  it  upon 
him. 

It  was  under  the  impression  from  this  interview, 
and  in  the  exercise  of  this  sincere  desire  for  faith, 
that  Cowper  seems  to  have  passed  from  such  an  in- 
terval of  light  into  thick  darkness,  darkness  that 
might  be  felt.  He  slept,  he  says,  three  hours,  but 
awoke  in  greater  terror  and  agony  than  ever.  The 
pains  of  hell  got  hold  upon  him,  and  the  sorrows 
of  death  enconrpassed  him.  The  malady  manifested 
its  physical  power,  and  showed  that  it  was  winding 
up  his  nervous  system  rapidly  to  delirium.  His 
hands  and  feet  became  cold  and  stiff ;  he  was  in 
a  cold-sweat ;  life  seemed  retreating  ;  and  he 
thought  he  was  about  to  die.  Notwithstanding  the 
relief  his  wounded  spirit  had  seemed  to  receive 
from  its  anguish,  this  paroxysm  of  nervous 
depression  (extreme  depression  and  extreme  ex- 
citement apparently  combined)  increased  upon 
him,  till,  after  some  hours  of  horrible  and  un- 
speakable anguish  and  dismay,  a  strange  and 
dreadful  darkness  fell  suddenly  upon  him.  The 
sensation,  as  Cowper  described  it  in  his  own  Me- 
moir, was  as  if  a  heavy  blow  had  suddenly  fallen 
on  the  brain,  without  touching  the  skull  ;  so  in- 


DEVELOPED.  83 

tensely  painful,  that  Cowper  clapped  his  hand  to 
his  forehead,  and  cried  aloud.  At  every  blow  his 
thoughts  and  expressions  became  more  wild  and 
incoherent,  till  manifestly  it  was  absolute  and  un- 
mistakable insanity.  From  that  moment,  through 
the  whole  interval  of  madness,  all  that  remained 
clear  to  him,  he  says,  was  the  sense  of  sin,  and  the 
expectation  of  punishment.  His  mind  was  a  pro- 
found chaos,  brooded  over  by  despair. 

His  brother  instantly  perceived  this  decisive 
change  when  it  commenced,  and,  on  consultation 
with  his  friends,  it  was  determined  that  he  should 
be  carried,  not  to  any  retreat  in  London  (for  which 
resolution  Cowper  afterward  praised  God,  deeming 
it  a  particular  providence  of  His  mercy),  but  to  St. 
Albans,  and  placed  under  the  care  of  that  humane, 
experienced,  and  excellent  physician,  and  man  of 
letters  and  of  piety,  Dr.  Cotton,  with  whom  Cow- 
per already  had  some  acquaintance. 

A  few  days  before  Cowper  left  London,  his 
cousin  Lady  Hesketh,  and  Sir  Thomas,  visited  him 
at  his  chambers  in  the  Temple.  It  was  just  before 
the  fearful  paroxysm  which  has  been  described, 
and  of  which  the  signs  were  being  developed  in  his 
deepening  gloom.  He  neither  looked  at  Lady 
Hesketh  nor  spoke  to  her  during  that  interview, 
and  he  said  in  his  heart,  when  she  went  out  of  the 
door,  "  Farewell  !     There  will  be  no  more  inter- 


84 


ANGUISH     OF 


course  between  us,  forever  !''  In  the  first  letter 
which  he  wrote  to  Lady  Hesketh  after  the  restora- 
tion of  his  reason,  he  referred  to  his  unaccountable 
behavior  in  that  interview.  "  I  remember  I  neither 
spoke  to  you  nor  looked  at  you.  The  solution  of 
the  mystery  indeed  followed  soon  after  ;  but  at  the 
time  it  must  have  been  inexplicable.  The  uproar 
within  was  even  then  begun,  and  my  silence  was 
only  the  sulkiness  of  a  thunder-storm  before  it 
opens.  I  am  glad,  however,  that  the  only  instance 
in  which  I  knew  not  how  to  value  your  company, 
was  when  I  was  not  in  my  senses." 

Cowper's  brother,  on  Ins  dying  bed,  described 
his  feelings  at  the  time  of  the  interview  with  Cow- 
per  in  the  period  of  his  mental  distress  in  London. 
He  would  have  given  the  universe,  when  he  found 
him  in  such  anguish  and  despair,  to  have  admin- 
istered some  comfort  to  him,  and  tried  even'  method 
of  doing  it,  but  found  it  impossible.  He  began  to 
consider  his  sufferings  as  a  judgment  upon  his 
brother,  and  his  own  inability  to  relieve  them  as  a 
judgment  upon  himself.  But  when  Mr.  Madan 
came  in  and  spoke  the  precious  consolations  of  the 
Gospel  to  Cowper's  agitated  soul,  he  succeeded  in 
a  moment  in  calming  him.  This  surprised  Cow- 
per's brother,  for  Mr.  Madan  had.  in  the  name  of 
Christ,  and  the  message  of  his  mercy  to  the  chief 
of  sinners,  a  key  to    Cowper's   heart,  which   his 


-     CO  W  PER' S     BROTHER.  85 

brother  had  then  neither  gained  nor  knew  how  to 
use  ;  but  it  no  longer  surprised  him  when  the  light 
had  broken  upon  his  mind,  and  the  peace  of  God 
that  passeth  all  understanding  had  filled  his  heart 
during  his  own  sickness. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

COWPER'S   CONVERSION. — THE   GRACE   AND   GLORY  OF  IT. 

During  the  period  of  Cowper's  seclusion  at  St. 
Albans,  the  tenderest  and  most  skillful  discipline, 
both  for  mind  and  body,  was  brought  to  bear  upon 
nim,  but  for  many  months  to  no  apparent  purpose. 
It  was  not  that  reason  was  dethroned,  as  in  the 
first  access  of  his  insanity,  but  an  immovable,  im- 
penetrable, awful  gloom  surrounded  him,  out  of 
which  it  seemed  as  if  he  never  would  emerge.  All 
this  while,  Cowper  says,  conviction  of  sin  and  ex- 
pectation of  instant  judgment  never  left  him,  from 
the  7th  of  December,  1763,  till  the  middle  of  July 
following  ;  and  for  eight  months  all  that  passed 
might  be  classed  under  two  heads,  conviction  of 
sin  and  despair  of  mercy.  Over  the  secrets  of  the 
prison-house  he  draws  the  vail,  if  indeed  he  remem- 
bered them  ;  but  even  when  he  had  so  far  regained 
his  reason  as  to  enter  into  conversation  with  Dr. 
Cotton,  putting  on  the  aspect  of  smiles  and  mer- 
riment, he  still  carried  the  sentence  of  irrecoverable 
doom  in  his  heart.     The  gloom  continued,  till  a 


LIGHT      AND      G  R  A  C  E .  87 

visit  from  his  brother  in  July,  1764,  seemed  at- 
tended with  a  faint  breaking  of  the  cloud  ;  and 
something  like  a  ray  of  hope,  in  the  midst  of  their 
conversation,  shot  into  his  heart. 

And  now,  for  the  first  time  in  a  long  while,  he 
took  up  the  Bible,  which  he  found  upon  a  bench 
in  the  garden  where  he  was  walking,  but  which  he 
had  long  thrown  aside,  as  having  no  more  any 
interest  or  portion  in  it.  The  eleventh  chapter  of 
John,  to  which  he  opened,  deeply  affected  him  ; 
and  though  as  yet  the  way  of  salvation  was  not 
beheld  by  him,  still  the  cloud  of  horror  seemed 
every  moment  passing  away,  and  every  moment 
came  fraught  with  hope.  It  seemed  at  length  like 
a  spring-time  in  his  soul,  when  the  voice  of  the 
singing  of  birds  might  once  more  be  heard,  and  a 
resurrection  from  death  be  experienced.  And, 
indeed,  God's  time  of  mercy  in  Christ  Jesus  had 
now  come.  Seating  himself  in  a  chair  near  the 
window,  and  seeing  a  Bible  there,  Cowper  once 
more  took  it  up  and  opened  it  for  comfort  and  in- 
struction. And  now  the  very  first  verse  he  fell 
upon  was  that  most  remarkable  passage  in  the 
third  chapter  of  Romans,  that  blessed  third  of 
Paul,  as  Bunyan  would  have  called  it,  "  whom  God 
had  set  forth  to  be  a  propitiation  through  faith 
in  His  blood,  to  declare  His  righteousness  through 
the  remission  of  sins  that  are  passed,  through  the 
forbearance  of  God."      Immediately   on   reading 


88 


LIGHT      AND      GRACE 


this  verse,  the  scales  fell  from  his  eyes,  as  in 
another  case  from  Paul's,  and  in  his  own  language, 
"he  received  strength  to  believe,  and  the  full 
beams  of  the  Sun  of  Kighteousness  shone  upon 
him."  "I  saw,"  says  he,  "  the  sufficiency  of  the 
atonement  He  had  made,  my  pardon  sealed  in  His 
blood,  and  all  the  fullness  and  completeness  of  His 
justification.  In  a  moment  I  believed,  and  re- 
ceived the  Gospel.  Whatever  my  friend  Madan 
had  said  to  me  so  long  before,  revived  with  all  its 
clearness,  with  demonstration  of  the  Spirit,  and 
with  power." 

Now  this  was  a  most  complete  and  wondrous 
cure.  Not  more  wondrous  was  that  of  the  poor 
wild  man  of  the  mountains  in  Judea,  of  old  pos- 
sessed with  devils,  when  brought  to  sit,  clothed  and 
in  his  right  mind,  at  the  feet  of  his  Redeemer.  The 
fever  of  the  brain  was  quenched,  those  specters 
with  dragon  wings  that  had  brooded  over  the 
chaos  of  his  soul,  were  fled  forever  ;  the  ignorance 
and  darkness  of  an  understanding  blinded  by  the 
god  of  this  world  had  been  driven  away  before 
the  mild,  calm,  holy  light  of  a  regenerated,  illum- 
inated, sanctified  reason,  in  her  white  robe  of 
humility  and  faith ;  and  the  anxious,  restless, 
gloomy  unbelief  and  despair  of  heart  had  given 
place  to  a  sweet  and  rapturous  confidence  in 
Jesus.  Oh,  it  were  worth  going  mad  many  years, 
to  be  the  subject  of  such  a  heavenly  deliverance 


LIGHT      AND      Q  R  A  C  £.  89 

The  Hand  Divine  of  the  Great  Physician,  gentle 
and  invisible,  was  in  all  this  ;  the  vail  was  taken 
from  Cowper's  heart,  and  the  Lord  of  Life  and 
Glory  stood  revealed  before  him  ;  and  when  his 
soul  took  in  the  meaning  of  that  grand  passage  in 
God's  Word,  it  was  a  flood  of  heaven's  light  over 
his  whole  being.  It  was  as  sudden  and  complete 
an  illumination  as  when  the  light  shineth  from 
one  side  of  heaven  to  the  other ;  and  it  was  as 
permanent,  through  a  long  and  blissful  season  of 
unclouded  Christian  experience,  as  when  the  sun 
shineth  at  noon-day,  or  in  that  other  and  more 
lovely  image  in  the  Word  of  God,  as  the  sun's 
clear  shining  after  rain.  It  was  creative  energy 
and  beauty  in  the  spiritual  world,  transcending  the 
glory  of  the  scene  when  God  said,  "  Let  there  he 
light"  in  the  material  world. 

But  what  was  this  sudden  revelation  ?  Assur- 
edly Cowper  had  seen,  had  heard,  had  read,  this 
passage  before.  Undoubtedly  Mr.  Madan,  him- 
self an  enlightened  and  rejoicing  Christian,  must 
have  presented  it  to  him,  and  dwelt  upon  its 
meaning.  Indeed,  it  had  always  been,  in  the 
speculation  of  the  tj^)logical,  and  the  experience 
of  the  Christian  worra,  as  marked  a  fixture  and 
feature  of  truth  and  proof  in  Christian  doctrine, 
as  the  sun  is  a  radiant  and  reigning  luminary  in 
the  heavens.  And  yet,  Cowper  had  never  beheld 
it  before  !     But  now,  on  the  verge  of  a  region  of 


90  DIVINE     ILLUMINATION. 

darkness  that  can  be  felt,  through  which  he  had 
been  struggling,  he  saw  it  suddenly,  transport- 
ingly,  permanently.  How  can  this  be  accounted 
for  ?  What  invisible  influence  or  agent  was  busy 
in  the  recesses  of  Cowper's  mind,  arranging  its 
scenery,  withdrawing  its  clouds,  preparing  its 
powers  of  vision,  and  at  the  same  time  moving  in 
the  recesses  of  that  profound  passage,  shining  be- 
hind the  letter  of  its  phrases,  as  behind  a  vast 
transparency,  and  pouring  through  it,  like  a  sud- 
den creation,  the  imagery  of  heaven  ?  There  is 
but  one  answer  ;  and  this  experience  of  Cowper's 
mind  and  heart  is  one  of  the  most  marked  and 
wondrous  instances  on  record,  illustrative  of  his 
own  exquisitely  beautiful  hymn,  beginning, 

The  Spirit  breathes  upon  the  Word, 
And  brings  the  truth  to  sight. 

It  is  one  of  the  most  precious  demonstrations  ever 
known  of  that  passage  in  which  the  Apostle  Paul 
describes  his  own  similar  experience,  and  that  of 
all  who  are  ever  truly  converted,  "  For  God,  who 
caused  the  light  to  shine  out  of  darkness,  hath 
shined  in  our  hearts,  to  gage  the  light  of  the 
knowledge  of  the  glory  of  God  in  the  face  of  Jesus 
Christ."  It  was  one  of  the  most  marvelous  and 
interesting  cases  of  this  Divine  Illumination  in  the 
whole  history  of  Redemption. 

Why  had  not   Cowper   seen  all   this  before  ? 


DIVINE     ILLUMINATION.  91 

Because,  according  to  God's  own  answer,  "the 
natural  man  receiveth  not  the  things  of  the  Spirit 
of  God,  for  they  are  foolishness  unto  him,  neither 
can  he  know  them,  because  they  are  spiritually 
discerned."  These  truths  were  as  clearly  truths, 
and  as  well  known  in  speculation,  before  that 
hour,  that  moment,  of  the  shining  of  heaven  in 
his  soul,  as  they  ever  were  afterward.  But  as 
yet  they  had  not  been  revealed  by  the  Spirit. 
But  the  instant  God  thus  interposed,  then  could 
Cowper  exclaim  with  Paul,  "Now  we  have  re- 
ceived not  the  spirit  of  the  world,  but  the  Spirit 
which  is  of  God,  that  we  might  know  the  things 
that  are  freely  given  to  us  of  God."  First,  the 
revelation  of  the  things  that  are  given,  then  the 
Spirit,  that  we  might  know  them.  And  the  reason 
why  this  Divine  Illumination  did  not  take  place 
years  before,  was  just  because  the  vail  was  on  the 
heart,  and  it  had  not  turned  to  the  Lord,  that  the 
vail  might  be  taken  away ;  and  it  pleased  the 
sovereign  blessed  will  and  infinite  wisdom  and  love 
of  God  to  lead  the  subject  of  this  mighty  ex- 
perience out  of  darkness  into  light  by  a  gradual 
preparatory  discipline.  And  yet,  when  the  light 
came,  it  was  as  new,  as  surprising,  as  ecstatic,  as 
the  light  of  day  to  a  man  blind  from  his  birth. 

"  Unless  the  Almighty  arm  had  been  under 
me,"  says  he,  "I  think  I  should  have  died  with 
gratitude  and  joy.     My  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and 


92  JOY      IX      THE      LORD. 

my  voice  choked  with  transport,  I  could  only  look 
to  heaven  in  silence,  overwhelmed  with  love  and 
wonder.  But  the  work  of  the  Holy  Spirit  is  best 
described  in  His  own  words — it  was  joy  unspeak- 
able, and  full  of  glory.  Thus  was  my  Heavenly 
Father  in  Christ  Jesus  pleased  to  give  me  full 
assurance  of  faith  ;  and  out  of  a  strong  unbeliev- 
ing heart  to  raise  up  a  child  unto  Abraham.  How 
glad  should  I  now  have  been  to  have  spent  every 
moment  in  prayer  and  thanksgiving  !  I  lost  no 
opportunity  of  repairing  to  a  throne  of  grace,  but 
flew  to  it  with  an  eagerness  irresistible,  and  never 
to  be  satisfied.  Could  I  help  it  ?  Could  I  do 
otherwise  than  to  love  and  rejoice  in  my  recon- 
ciled Father  in  Christ  Jesus  ?  The  Lord  had 
enlarged  my  heart,  and  I  ran  in  the  ways  of  His 
commandments.  For  many  succeeding  "weeks 
tears  were  ready  to  flow,  if  I  did  but  speak  of 
the  Gospel,  or  mention  the  name  of  Jesus.  To 
rejoice  day  and  night  was  my  employment ;  too 
happy  to  sleep  much,  I  thought  it  was  lost  time 
that  was  spent  in  slumber.  0  that  the  ardor  of 
my  first  love  had  continued  !" 

It  was  such  a  change,  so  bright,  so  sudden,  so 
complete,  so  joyful,  that  at  first  his  kind,  Chris- 
tian and  watchful  physician,  Dr.  Cotton,  was 
alarmed  lest  it  might  terminate  in  frenzy  ;  but 
he  soon  became  convinced  of  the  sacred  sound- 
ness  and    permanent    blissfulness    of    the    cure. 


THE      VOICE      OF    CHRIST.  93 

Every  morning  of  the  year  lie  visited  his  inter- 
esting and  beloved  patient ;  and  ever,  in  sweet 
communion,  the  Gospel  was  the  delightful  theme 
of  their  conversation.  What  a  history  of  passing 
hours  within  the  apartments  of  an  insane  hos- 
pital !  Oh,  if  this  were  the  theme  of  communion, 
and  this  the  instrumentality  of  healing  oftener 
employed,  how  many  distressed,  diseased,  and 
wandering  spirits  might  have  been  restored  that, 
neglected  still,  have  wandered  on  till  the  wreck 
of  reason  became  confirmed  and  hopeless  !  The 
voice  of  Christ  is  the  voice  of  true  Science  to 
every  lunatic,  Bring  him  hither  to  Me. 


CHAPTER    VII. 


COWPER'S  SURVEY  OF  HIS  OWN  CASE. — HIS  REMOVAL  TO  HUNT- 
INGDON.— HIS  HAPPY  EXPERIENCE  THERE. — SCENES  OF  THE 
COMPOSITION  OF  HIS  EARLIEST  HYMNS. — PREPARATION  FOR  HIS 
WORK. 


"  Oh  the  fever  of  the  brain  !"  exclaimed  Cowper 
in  one  of  his  beautiful  letters  to  Lady  Hesketb, 
after  his  recovery;  "  to  feel  the  quenching  of  that 
fire  is  indeed  a  blessing  which  I  think  it  impossible 
to  receive  without  the  most  consummate  grati- 
tude." "My  affliction  has  taught  me  a  road  to 
happiness  which,  without  it3  I  should  never  have 
found."  Cowper  then  refers  to  the  rumor  which 
was  put  in  circulation,  and  has  not  ceased  in  some 
hands  to  be  passed  as  current  from  that  day  to 
this,  although,  like  a  counterfeit  bill  long  in  use,  it 
is  now  nearly  worn  out,  that  his  madness  was  the 
cause  of  his  religion,  instead  of  religion  being  the 
cure  of  his  madness.  He  says,  "  It  gives  me  some 
concern,  though  at  the  same  time  it  increases  my 
gratitude,  to  reflect  that  a  convert  made  in  Bedlam 
is  more  likely  to  be  a  stumbling-block  to  others 
than  to  advance  their  faith.     But  he  who  can  as- 


i 


cowper's    survey.  95 

cribe  an  amendment  of  life,  and  manners  and  a  ref- 
ormation of  the  heart  itself  to  madness^  is  guilty 
of  an  absurdity  that  in  any  other  case  would  fasten 
the  imputation  of  madness  upon  himself/' 

Cowper  speaks  of  the  belief,  or  rather  the  vain 
imagination  entertained  by  multitudes,  that  a  per- 
son needed  no  such  change  as  that  of  conversion  in 
order  to  be  a  Christian.  "  You  think  I  always  be- 
lieved, and  I  thought  so  too  ;  but  you  were  de- 
ceived, and  so  was  I.  I  called  myself,  indeed,  a 
Christian,  but  He  who  knows  my  heart  knoivs  that 
I  never  did  a  right  thing,  nor  abstained  from  a 
wrong  one,  because  I  was  so  ;  but  if  I  did  either, 
it  was  under  the  influence  of  some  other  motive." 
This  is  a  most  impressive  and  searching  remark ; 
it  goes  to  the  inmost  condition  of  every  unchanged 
heart,  the  native  condition  of  every  heart ;  and  it 
shows  with  what  profound  and  thorough  a  sweep 
of  analysis  Cowper  had  been  taught  to  survey  the 
elements  of  his  own  character.  He  adds,  "  It  is 
such  seeming  Christians,  such  pretending  believ- 
ers, that  do  most  mischief  in  the  cause  of  its  ene- 
mies, and  furnish  the  strongest  arguments  to  sup- 
port their  infidelity.  Unless  profession  and  conduct 
go  together,  the  man's  life  is  a  lie,  and  the  validity 
of  what  he  professes  is  itself  called  in  question. 
The  difference  between  a  Christian  and  an  unbe- 
liever would  be  so  striking,  if  the  treacherous  allies 
of  the  Church  would  go  over  at  once  to  the  other 


96  cowper's    survey 

side,  that  I  am  satisfied  religion  would  be  no  loser 
by  the  bargain." 

In  the  survey  of  his  case,  Cowper  rejoiced  with 
gratitude  in  the  providential  care  with  which  it 
pleased  God  to  assign  his  treatment  not  to  any 
London  physician,  but  to  a  man  so  affectionate 
and  experienced  as  Dr.  Cotton.  "  I  was  not  only 
treated  by  him  with  the  greatest  tenderness  while 
I  was  ill,  and  attended  with  the  utmost  diligence, 
but  when  my  reason  was  restored  to  me,  and  I  had 
so  much  need  of  a  religious  friend  to  converse  with, 
to  whom  I  could  open  my  mind  upon  the  subject 
without  reserve,  I  could  hardly  have  found  a  better 
person  for  the  purpose.  My  eagerness  and  anxiety 
to  settle  my  opinions  on  that  long-neglected  point, 
made  it  necessary  that  while  my  mind  was  yet  weak 
and  my  spirits  uncertain  I  should  have  some  assist- 
ance. The  doctor  was  as  ready  to  administer  relief 
in  this  article  likewise,  and  as  well  gratified  to  do 
it  as  in  that  which  was  immediately  his  province. 
But  how  many  physicians  would  have  thought  this 
an  irregular  appetite,  and  a  symptom  of  remain- 
ing madness  !  But  if  it  were  so,  my  friend  was  as 
mad  as  myself,  and  it  is  well  for  me  that  he  was 
so.  My  dear  cousin,  you  know  not  half  the  deliv- 
erances I  have  received ;  my  brother  is  the  only 
one  in  the  family  who  does.  My  recovery  is,  in- 
deed, a  signal  one,  and  my  future  life  must  express 
my  thankfulness,  for  by  words  I  can  not  do  it." 


OF     HIS     OWN      CASE,  97 

The  remark  concerning  C owner's  brother  is  ex- 
ceedingly interesting  and  instructive,  taken  in  con- 
nection with  his  own  remarkable  conversion  five 
years  later.  It  was  the -sight  and  knowledge  of 
what  Cowper  passed  through  ;  those  depths  of  an- 
guish and  despair  beneath  the  burden  of  his  guilt 
in  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,  where  the 
kindest  and  most  affectionate  of  brothers  could  do 
nothing  for  him,  and  could  not  even  understand 
the  causes  of  his  gloom,  or  the  means  and  the  pro- 
cess of  his  recovery  and  joy  ;  that  began  to  awaken 
that  brother's  own  suspicions  that  in  his  own  case 
all  was  not  right,  and  set  him  upon  investigating 
the  subject  of  religion  with  an  attention  he  had 
never  before  paid  to  it,  though  he  had  been  a  cler- 
gyman of  the  Church  of  England,  with  a  pastoral 
charge,  for  several  years.  This  was  not  the  least 
remarkable  of  the  chain  of  providences  to  which 
Cowper  often  reverted  with  adoring  gratitude  and 
love,  though  it  was  not  known  till  the  thrilling 
disclosure  of  his  brother's  conflicts,  doubts,  dis- 
tresses, and,  at  length,  rejoicing  faith  in  his  sick 
and  dying  hours,  how  God  had  been  dealing  with 
him  and  leading  him  onward.  Cowper's  brother 
had  been  but  a  weeping  and  helpless  spectator  in 
his  trials  ;  but  Cowper  himself  had  been  prepared 
of  God  to  be  a  ministering  angel  to  the  anguished 
spirit  of  his  brother,  when  it  came  his  turn  to  pass 
through  the  gloomy  experience  of  condemnation 


98  SPIRITUAL     JOY. 

under  guilt,  and  afterward  through  death  itself  to 
life  eternal.     In  many  a  sense  Cowper  could  write, 

Blind  unbelief  is  sure  to  err 

And  scan  His  work  in  vain  ; 
God  is  His  own  interpreter 

And  He  will  make  it  plain. 

Rarely  in  the  history  of  God's  grace  has  there 
been  a  picture  of  such  complete,  unmingled,  celes- 
tial peace  and  joy  in  believing,  as  seems  to  have 
filled  the  soul  of  Cowper,  when  it  first  pleased  God 
to  shine  into  his  heart  with  "  the  light  of  the  knowl- 
edge of  the  glory  of  God  in  the  face  of  Jesus  Christ " 
The  vail  was  taken  away,  and  he  beheld  with  a 
happiness  passing  all  jiower  0f  description,  the 
glory  of  the  Lord,  and  was  changed  into  the  same 
image  from  glory  to  glory  by  the  Spirit  of  the  Lord. 
Oh  that  this  might  have  lasted  to  the  end !  was 
his  very  natural  wish  concerning  that  season  of 
ecstatic  heavenly  enjoyment. 

And  at  first  thought  we  are  ready  to  repeat  the 
same  wish  ;  but  then  comes  the  reflection  that 
such  is  not  God's  discipline  with  us,  nor,  consider- 
ing the  way  in  which  a  Christian  is  established  and 
perfected  or  made  useful,  by  any  possibility  can 
be ;  and  then,  again,  the  remembrance  that  if  it 
had  thus  continued  the  world  could  never  have 
possessed,  from  Cowper  at  least,  that  sweetest  and 
noblest  of  Christian  poems,  "  The  Task/'     It  was 


SPIRITUAL     JOY.  99 

a  larger  discipline  of  trials,  and  of  spiritual  sorrow 
intermingled,  that  must  prepare  the  mind  and 
heart  of  Cowper  for  the  work  God  had  for  him  to 
do.  Other  processes,  deep,  secret,  unseen,  un- 
known, were  to  pass  within  the  soil,  rough  and 
painful  at  the  time,  and  rarely  resting,  before  it 
could  be  fitted  for  the  creation  of  that  precious 
fruit. 

But  if  ever  a  saint  on  earth  knew  the  whole 
meaning  of  that  expression,  a  first  love,  it  was 
Cowper.  There  was  nothing,  ever  after,  to  sur- 
pass it.  The  perfect  day,  even  if  Cowper  had 
come  to  it  on  earth,  and  had  continued  to  enjoy 
it,  could  never  on  earth  have  been  arrayed  in  such 
intense,  attractive  loveliness,  as  the  beauty,  the 
peacefulness,  the  sweetness,  the  purity,  and  the 
heavenly  colors  of  that  morning  without  clouds, 
after  a  night  of  such  blackness,  driving  tempest, 
and  distracting  madness  and  despair.  It  was  this 
heavenly  experience  to  which  Cowper  looks  back 
with  such  mournful  longings,  in  the  most  sacredly 
beautiful  and  widely  known  perhaps  of  all  the 
hymns  in  our  language  : 

"Where  is  the  blessedness  I  knew 

When  first  I  saw  the  Lord  ? 
Where  is  that  soul-refreshing  view 

Of  Jesus  and  His  Word? 

What  peaceful  hours  I  once  enjoyed ! 

How  sweet  their  memory  still ! 
But  they  have  left  an  aching  void 

The  world  can  never  fill. 


100  COMMUNIO  N     WITH     GOD. 

These  two  verses  are  a  parenthesis  of  prayer,  the 
full  meaning  of  which,  only  he  who  wrote  these 
stanzas,  looking  back  to  the  blissfulness  and  glory 
of  his  earliest  experience,  could  fully  understand. 
But  the  yearning  desire,  0  for  a  closer  walk  with 
God  !  is  the  breathing  of  every  Christian  heart. 
In  this  serene  and  happy  frame  after  his  re- 
covery, Cowper  remained  twelve  months  still  with 
Dr.  Cotton  at  St.  Albans.  Meanwhile  he  had  re- 
solved, by  God's  help,  never  to  return  to  London, 
and,  for  this  purpose,  that  no  obligation  might 
rest  upon  him  to  resume  his  residence  there,  he 
resigned  the  office  of  Commissioner  of  Bankrupts, 
which  he  held  at  a  salary  of  sixty  pounds  per 
annum,  although  this  procedure  left  him  with  an 
income  so  small  as  to  be  hardly  sufficient  for  his 
maintenance.  His  beloved  brother  resided  at 
Cambridge,  and  at  Cowper's  desire  made  many 
unsuccessful  attempts  to  procure  for  him  a  suit- 
able dwelling  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Univer- 
sity. Cowper  now  mentions  a  day  in  which,  with 
great  earnestness,  he  poured  out  his  soul  to  God 
in  prayer,  beseeching  him,  that  wherever  it  should 
please  God  in  His  Fatherly  mercy  to  lead  him,  it 
might  be  into  the  society  of  those  who  feared  His 
name,  and  loved  the  Lord  Jesus  in  sincerity  and 
truth.  What  followed  he  regarded  as  a  proof  of 
God's  gracious  acceptance  of  that  prayer,  having 
received  immediate  information  of  lodgings  taken 


I 

COMMUNION      WITH     GOD.  101 

for  him  at  Huntingdon,  about  sixteen  miles  from 
Cambridge,  where  God,  lie  says,  like  an  indulgent 
Father,  had  ordered  every  thing  for  him,  and  had 
prepared  for  him  a  more  comfortable  place  of 
residence  than  he  could  have  chosen  for  himself. 

Thus,  after  more  than  eighteen  months  spent 
at  St.  Albans,  he  set  out  for  Cambridge  and  Hun- 
tingdon, taking  with  him  an  affectionate  servant, 
who  had  watched  over  him  during  his  whole  ill- 
ness, and  who  earnestly  begged  to  be  permitted 
still  to  be  with  him.  He  passed  the  whole  time 
of  the  way  in  silent  communion  with  God  ;  and 
those  hours,  he  says,  were  among  the  happiest  he 
had  ever  known.  "  It  is  impossible  to  tell,"  is  the 
strong  language  of  Cowper,  "  with  how  delightful 
a  sense  of  His  protection  and  fatherly  care  of  me 
it  pleased  the  Almighty  to  favor  me  during  the 
whole  of  my  journey."  In  this  happy  frame  of 
mind  he  took  possession  of  his  lodgings  at  Hun- 
tingdon, whither  his  brother  accompanied  him 
from  Cambridge  on  Saturday,  and  then  bade  him 
farewell. 

And  now,  like  a  little  child  left  alone  for  the 
first  time  among  strangers,  his  heart  began  to 
sink  within  him,  and  he  wandered  forth  into  the 
fields  melancholy  and  desponding  at  the  close  of 
the  day,  but,  like  Isaac  at  eventide,  found  his 
heart  so  powerfully  drawn  to  God  that,  having 
encountered  a  secluded  spot  beneath  a  bank  of 


102  COMMUNION      WITH      GOD. 

shrubbery  and  verdure,  lie  kneeled  down  and 
poured  out  his  whole  soul  in  prayer  and  praise. 
It  pleased  the  Saviour  to  hear  him,  and  to  grant 
him  at  once  a  renewed  sense  of  His  presence,  a  de- 
liverance from  his  fears,  and  a  sweet  submissive 
assurance  that  wherever  his  lot  might  be  cast,  the 
God  of  all  consolation  would  still  be  with  him. 

The  next  clay  was  the  Sabbath,  and  he  attended 
church  the  first  time  since  his  recovery,  and  of 
course  the  first  time  for  nearly  two  years,  and  he 
found  the  House  of  God  to  be  the  very  gate  to 
Heaven.  He  could  scarcely  restrain  his  emotions 
during  the  service,  so  fully  did  he  see  the  beauty 
of  the  glory  of  the  Lord.  A  person  with  whom 
he  afterward  became  acquainted  sat  near  him, 
devoutly  engaged  in  the  exercises  of  Divine  Wor- 
ship, and  Cowper  beholding  him,  loved  him-  for 
the  earnestness  of  his  manner.  "  While  he  was 
singing  the  Psalms,"  Cowper  says,  "  I  looked  at 
him,  and  observing  him  intent  upon  his  holy  em- 
ployment, I  could  not  help  saying  in  my  heart 
with  much  emotion,  The  Lord  bless  you  for  prais- 
ing Him  whom  my  soul  loveth." 

Oh,  this  was  the  very  spirit  and  temper  of  the 
saints  and  angels  in  glory  ;  and,  indeed,  such 
was  the  goodness  of  the  Lord  to  Cowjier,  that 
though  his  own  voice  was  stopped  in  silence  by 
the  very  intensity  of  his  feeling,  yet  his  soul  sang 
within  him,  and  leaped  for  joy.     By  the  good  pro- 


COMMUNION     WITH     GOD.  103 

vidence  of  God,  the  reading  of  the  Gospel  for  the 
day  happened  to  be  the  Parable  of  the  Prodigal 
Son,  and  Cowper  felt  the  whole  scene  realized 
with  himself,  and  acted  over  in  his  own  heart  ; 
and  the  joy  and  power  of  the  Word  of  God,  with 
that  heart  thus  quickened  by  the  Holy  Spirit  to 
receive  it,  were  more  than  he  could  well  support. 
He  hastened  immediately  after  church  to  that 
solitary  place  in  the  fields  where  he  had  found 
such  sacred  enjoyment  in  prayer  the  day  before, 
and  now  he  found  that  even  that  was  but  the 
earnest  of  a  richer  blessing.  "How,"  exclaims 
Cowper,  "shall  I  express  what  the  Lord  did  for 
me,  except  by  saying  that  He  made  all  his  good- 
ness to  pass  before  me.  I  seemed  to  speak  to  Him 
face  to  face,  as  a  man  converseth  with  his  friend, 
except  that  my  speech  was  only  in  tears  of  joy  and 
groanings  which  can  not  be  uttered.  I  could  say 
indeed  with  Jacob,  not  how  dreadful,  but  how 
lovely  is  this  place !  this  is  none  other  than  the 
house  of  God  \" 

There,  in  this  sacred  spot,  and  in  the  deep  de- 
light of  such  devout  and  blissful  experience,  is  the 
very  locality  and  atmosphere  of  that  perfectly 
beautiful  hymn  which  Cowper  wrote,  entitled 
"  Retirement."  There  was  the  calm  retreat  ;  there 
the  unwitnessed  praise  ;  there  the  peace,  and  joy, 
and  love  ;  there  the  holy  discipline  of  communion 
with  the  Saviour,  by  which  He  prepared  His  serv- 


104  RETIREMENT. 

ant  to  pour  forth  the  gratitude  of  a  redeemed 
spirit  in  strains  which  would  be  sung  by  the  Church 
of  God  on  earth  till  the  whole  Church  sing  in 
heaven.  If  all  of  Cowper's  sufFe rings  and  joy  had 
yielded  but  the  fruit  of  that  one  hymn,  it  had  been 
cheaply  purchased.  God  ordained  him  those  suf- 
ferings, and  gave  him  those  seasons  of  mercy,  that 
he  might  write  it.  But  that  was  not  the  only  fruit, 
though  perhaps  the  most  perfect,  of  such  heavenly 
experience  ;  and  God  was  now  preparing  not  only 
the  inward  frame,  but  the  external  circumstances 
of  His  chosen  child,  for  that  unexampled,  exquisite, 
and  important  work  of  Christian  Poetry  which  He 
had  for  him  to  accomplish. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

FIRST  ACQUAINTANCE  AND  DOMESTICATION  WITH  THE  UNWIN  FAM- 
ILY.— REMOVAL  TO  OLNEY,  AND  INTIMATE  FRIENDSHIP  WITH 
NEWTON. — COWPER'S  ACTIVE  AND  BENEVOLENT  RELIGIOUS  HAB- 
ITS.— COMPOSITION   OF  THE  OLNEY  HYMNS. 

For  some  months  after  he  had  taken  lodgings  in 
Huntingdon,  he  was  very  closely  retired  from  so- 
ciety, having  little  more  than  the  visits  of  his  be- 
loved brother  from  Cambridge,  who,  as  it  afterward 
appeared,  was  himself,  even  then,  blindly  groping 
for  the  way  of  life,  though  not  willing  to  acknowl- 
edge it.  With  him,  as  often  as  Cowper  saw  him, 
which  was  once  or  twice  a  week,  he  conversed  on 
the  leading  themes  of  the  Gospel,  though  for  five 
years  the  arguments  and  experience  of  Cowper 
seemed  to  have  little  effect  upon  him.  Except 
these  visits,  and  those  of  one  or  two  acquaintances, 
whom  Cowper  playfully  described  in  his  letter  to 
his  cousin,  Lady  Hesketh,  as  odd,  scrambling  fel- 
lows like  himself,  he  had  little  intercourse  with  the 
neighbors,  but  increasing  communion  with  his  God 
in  Christ  Jesus.  With  Him  his  solitude  was 
sweet,  and  the  "wilderness  blossomed  as  the  rose." 


10b*  INTRODUCTION      TO 

u  I  am  much  happier,"  said  he,  in  a  letter  to  Major 
Cowper,  "  than  the  day  is  long,  and  sunshine  and 
candlelight  alike  see  me  perfectly  contented." 

But  God  had  still  a  sweeter  change  for  him,  and 
under  the  sanction  and  the  power  of  prayer,  by 
the  direct  guiding  providence  of  God  he  was  un- 
expectedly brought  into  an  intimate  friendship, 
which  fixed  the  whole  course  and  habitation  of  his 
future  life.  There  had  been  settled  for  many  years 
in  Huntingdon  an  interesting  and  delightful  Chris- 
tian family,  consisting  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Unwin,  a 
worthy  divine,  somewhat  advanced  in  years,  his 
wife,  an  accomplished,  intelligent,  and  admirable 
woman,  and  their  two  children,  a  son  and  daughter. 
William  Cawthorae  Unwin,  the  son,  was  at  this 
time  about  twenty-one  years  of  age,  and  a  student 
at  Cambridge,  looking  forward  to  the  ministry. 
Being  irresistibly  attracted,  while  in  Huntingdon, 
by  Cowper' s  appearance  at  church  and  in  his  soli- 
tary walks,  he  at  length  gained  his  acquaintance  ; 
and  to  his  inexpressible  joy,  Cowper  found  in  him 
a  sharer  in  his  own  most  intimate  feelings  of  de- 
votion, and  one  whom  the  Lord  had  been  training 
from  his  infancy  to  the  service  of  the  temple. 
After  their  very  first  interview  and  interchange  of 
hearts,  Cowper  prayed  God,  who  had  been  the  au- 
thor, to  be  the  guardian  of  their  friendship,  and 
to  give  it  fervency  and  perpetuity  even  unto  death. 
An   introduction   to  the  familv  immediately  fol- 


X  HE      UN  W  i  N      FAMILY.  107 

lowed,  and  this  was  the  beginning  of  that  precious 
and  invaluable  Christian  friendship  with  Mrs.  Un- 
win,  which  was  to  last  through  life,  connecting  the 
two  in  an  existence  of  endearment  so  affectionate, 
so  singularly  intimate,  yet  so  pure,  so  disinterested, 
so  heavenly,  that  nothing  can  be  found  in  mortal 
story  to  compare  with  it. 

At  the  outset  Cowper  thanked  God  for  those 
Christian  friends  as  his  choicest  external  blessing, 
though  as  yet  he  had  no  thought  of  any  thing  fur- 
ther than  a  friendly  intercourse  with  the  family  as 
a  neighbor.  But  after  four  months  had  passed  in 
his  solitary  lodgings,  he  one  day  found  his  mind 
beclouded  with  darkness,  and  that  intimate  com- 
munion he  had  so  long  been  enabled  to  maintain 
with  God  was  suddenly  interrupted.  Almost  as 
suddenly  it  occurred  to  him,  and  in  a  manner  which 
made  him  ascribe  it  to  the  divine  suggesting  provi- 
dence of  the  same  gracious  Lord  who  had  brought 
him  to  Huntingdon,  that  he  might  possibly  find  a 
place  in  Mr.  Unwin's  family  as  a  boarder.  A  young 
gentleman  who  had  been  residing  there  as  a  pupil, 
had  gone  the  day  before  to  Cambridge,  and  Cow- 
per thought  it  possible  he  might  be  permitted  to 
succeed  him.  It  shows  in  how  sensitive  and  pre- 
cariously delicate  a  state  his  mind  then  was,  and 
how  much  he  needed  the  soothing  care  and  tender- 
ness of  confiding  Christian  friends,  that  from  the 
moment  this  thought  struck  him.  lie  was  in  such  a 


108  B  EMOV1L     T  u     OLNKT. 

turuult  uf  anxious  solicitHde  that  for  some  days  he 
could  not  direct  his  mind  to  any  other  subject.  At 
length,  after  much  prayer  and  no  little  conflict  and 
distress  in  the  fear  and  sense  of  unsubmissiveness 
to  God's  will,  in  case  the  blessing  should  not  bo 
granted,  his  heart  was  calmed,  the  negotiation  was 
entered  into  with  the  Unwins,  and  he  became  the 
happiest  inmate  of  their  domestic  circle. 

Nearly  two  years  ran  on  uninterrupted,  in  sweet 
social  and  Christian  enjoyment  and  growth  in 
grace,  when  Mr.  Unwin,  the  head  of  the  family, 
was  thrown  from  his  horse,  and  most  suddenly  and 
unexpectedly  hurried  into  eternity.  This  over- 
whelming affliction  was  followed  by  a  change  in  the 
abode  of  the  whole  family  from  Huntingdon  to 
Olney,  the  dwelling-place  and  scene  of  the  pastoral 
labors  of  one  of  the  most  eminent  men  of  God 
then  living,  John  Newton  ;  a  man  fitted  to  com- 
mune with,  and  guide,  and  bless  the  mind  and 
heart  of  Cowper,  in  his  progress  on  the  way  to 
heaven,  even  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of 
death.  By  the  same  divine  providence  that  had  so 
remarkably  led  them  both  thus  far,  the  steps  of 
Newton,  at  that  time  a  stranger  to  Cowper,  were 
directed  to  his  abode  a  few  days  after  the  calami- 
tous event  of  Mr.  Unwin's  death.  The  proposal 
was  then  suggested  for  the  removal  of  the  residence 
of  the  family  to  Olney  ;  and  the  thing  having  been 
resolved  upon,  Newton  engaged  for  them  a  house 


FRIENDSHIP     W  I  T  ii     N  B  W  T  OX.         1 09 

near  his  own  dwelling,  to  which  they  removed  the 
14th  of  October,  1767.  There  Cowper  spent  near 
twenty  years  of  mingled  sorrow  and  joy  ;  there  first 
his  poetical  powers  were  fully  developed  ;  there  he 
passed  through  unfathomed  abysses  of  darkness  and 
despair  ;  and  there,  under  the  discipline  of  God's 
hand,  and  the  guidance  of  God's  grace,  the  most 
precious  and  perfect  fruit  of  his  genius  bloomed  and 
was  ripened. 

Of  the  providences  by  which  the  intimate  friend- 
ship between  Cowper  and  Newrton  was  established, 
the  latter  beautifully  spoke  in  his  preface  to  the 
first  published  volume  of  Cowper's  poetry,  declar- 
ing at  the  same  time  his  own  estimate  of  the  value 
of  that  friendship.  "  By  these  steps,"  says  New- 
ton, "  the  good  hand  of  God,  unknown  to  me,  was 
providing  for  me  one  of  the  principal  blessings  of 
my  life  ;  a  friend  and  a  counselor,  in  whose  com- 
pany for  almost  seven  years,  though  we  were  seldom 
seven  successive  hours  separated,  I  always  found 
new  pleasure  ;  a  friend  who  was  not  only  a  com- 
fort to  myself,  but  a  blessing  to  the  affectionate 
poor  people  among  whom  I  then  lived/'  At  a  still 
later  period  of  their  friendship,  indeed,  after  the 
death  of  Cowper,  and  in  a  memoir  of  the  poet 
which  Newton  began  to  write,  but  never  finished, 
he  speaks  of  him  as  follows  :  "  For  nearly  twelve 
years  we  were  seldom  separated  for  twelve  hours  at 
a  time,  when  we  were  awake  and  at  home  :  the 


110  HABITS      AT     OLXEY. 

first  six  I  passed  in  daily  admiring  and  attempting 
to  imitate  him  ;  during  the  second  six,  I  walked 
pensively  with  him  in  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of 
death."  Again  he  gives  us  a  vivid  and  bright 
glimpse  of  Cowper's  habits  of  life  during  those  six 
delightful  years  especially,  while  almost  without  a 
cloud,  he  walked  in  the  light  of  his  Redeemer's 
countenance.  "  He  loved  the  poor.  He  often  vis- 
ited them  in  their  cottages,  conversed  with  them  in 
the  most  condescending  manner,  sympathized  with 
them,  counseled  and  comforted  them  in  their  dis- 
tresses ;  and  those  who  were  seriously  disposed  were 
often  cheered  and  animated  by  his  prayers." 

It  is  with  a  singular  feeling,  combining  a  mix- 
ture of  astonishment,  admiration,  anxiety,  doubt, 
and  most  affectionate  religious  interest,  that  the 
mind  presents  to  itself  a  picture  of  the  poet  Cow- 
per  engaging  in  those  social  religious  duties.  Re- 
membering the  period  of  madness  he  had  passed 
through,  and  the  sensitive  shyness  of  his  nature, 
the  instinctive  and  habitual  abhorrence  with  which 
he  shrank  from  any  thing  approximating  to  any 
public  exposure  of  himself  or  his  feelings,  we  trem- 
ble for  him  as  in  imagination  we  see  him  in  the 
social  prayer-meeting  and  at  the  bedside  of  the 
sick,  engaging  in  exercises  which  afterward,  for 
the  greater  period  of  his  life,  from  the  recurrence 
of  his  malady,  no  power  on  earth  could  have  pre- 
vailed with  him  to  undertake.     And  the  fact  that 


HABITS      AT      0  L  N  E  Y  .  Ill 

it  was  then  and  for  so  long  a  time  the  choice  of 
his  heart  and  the  happiness  of  his  life  to  engage  in 
those  duties,  shows  as  convincingly  as  his  own  de- 
scription of  the  early  blessedness  he  knew  in  com- 
munion with  his  Saviour,  how  commanding,  ab- 
sorbing, triumphant  and  complete  the  work  of 
Divine  grace  had  been  with  him.  It  could  trans- 
figure even  such  a  timid,  shrinking,  trembling  na- 
ture, just  emerged  from  the  terrific  and  tremendous 
gloom  of  absolute  insanity  into  a  fearless  and  sym- 
pathizing angel  of  mercy. 

The  errands  of  such  an  angel  might  have  been 
deemed  too  arduous  for  a  mind  so  finely  toned,  so 
easily  thrown  from  its  balance,  and  disposed  to  a 
mental  disorder  so  terrible  and  unfathomable. 
But  not  the  least  evil  result  ever  seems  to  have 
followed  from  these  habits,  these  efforts  ;  though 
at  first  it  could  not  but  have  been  a  painful 
task  to  Cowper  to  step  forth  from  the  depths  of  his 
retirement  on  any  social  mission  whatever.  But 
Mr.  Newton  was  with  him,  and  their  prayers  and 
Christian  confidence,  communion  and  enjoyment, 
were  as  the  exercises  of  one  mind  ;  and  beyond 
question  the  discipline  proved  a  most  strengthen- 
ing and  beneficial  one  both  to  his  intellect  and 
heart.  At  any  rate  it  was  his  Saviour's  dealing 
with  him  ;  it  was  the  same  Divine  wisdom  that 
led  the  same  heavenly  Physician  to  appoint  the 
restored  madman  from  his  wanderings  anions:  the 


112  CUWPER'S     HYMNS. 

tombs  in  Judea  to  an  instant  and  difficult  mission 
among  the  wild  and  wicked  sinners  of  Decapolis. 
But  Cowper's  was  a  gentle,  mild,  and  quiet  walk 
of  mercy  among  the  sorrowing  and  the  poor.  Be- 
yond a  doubt  the  discipline  of  such  kindly  minis- 
trations had  a  blessed  ministering  quality  upon 
himself,  as  well  as  the  discipline  of  his  own  sor- 
rows, in  enriching  and  baptizing  his  poetical  ge- 
nius, and  preparing  him  with  a  wider  and  more 
varied  experience  for  the  composition  of  "  The 
Task." 

The  happy  years  of  his  life  at  Huntingdon  and 
Olney,  between  1765,  the  period  of  his  recovery 
from  the  awful  gloom  and  despair  of  his  first  mad- 
ness, and  1773,  the  period  of  the  first  recurrence 
of  that  dread  mysterious  malady,  were  the  time  of 
the  composition  of  the  "  Olney  Hymns/'  And  if 
Cowper  had  never  given  to  the  Church  on  earth 
but  a  single  score  of  those  exquisite  breathings  of 
a  pious  heart  and  creations  of  his  own  genius,  it 
had  been  a  bequest  worth  a  life  of  suffering  to  ac- 
complish. The  dates,  or  nearly  such,  of  some  of 
those  pieces  were  preserved,  so  that  we  are  enabled 
to  trace  them  to  the  frames  and  circumstances  of 
the  writer's  mind  and  heart,  and  to  see  in  them  an 
exact  reflection  of  his  own  experience.  The  very 
first  that  he  composed  after  his  recovery  at  St. 
Alban's,  is  said  to  have  been  the  beautiful  hymn 
entitled  the  "  Happy  Change/'  of  which  the  two 


cowter's    hymns.  113 

following  stanzas  are  sweetly  descriptive  of  his  own 
restoration  : 

How  blest  Thy  creature  is,  0  God, 

When,  with  a  single  eye, 
He  views  the  lustre  of  Thy  word, 
The  day-spring  from  on  high! 

The  soul,  a  dreary  province  once 

Of  Satan's  dark  domain, 
Feels  a  new  empire  formed  within, 

And  owns  a  heavenly  reign. 

But  the  second  strain,  in  which  he  poured  forth 
an  experience  of  joy  unspeakable  and  full  of  glory, 
— "  Far  from  the  world,  0  Lord,  I  flee" — is  sweeter 
still ;  indeed,  beyond  comparison  more  perfect :  it 
is  exquisitely,  sacredly,  devoutly  beautiful.  The 
last  of  those  compositions  is  said  to  have  been  the 
hymn  beginning,  "God  moves  in  a  mysterious 
way;"  and  there  is  a  sublimity  of  interest  attached 
to  it,  besides  the  native  grandeur  and  beauty  of 
the  piece,  because  we  are  assured  that  it  was  sug- 
gested and  framed  under  a  presentiment  of  his 
recurring  darkness  and  insanity  of  mind.  He  had 
been  meditating,  and  doubtless  praying,  in  one  of 
his  accustomed  solitary  walks  in  the  open  fields, 
when  that  foreboding  impression  fell  upon  him  ; 
but  before  it  deepened  into  the  black  unfathom- 
able gloom  that  his  soul  apprehended,  he  composed 
that  most  touching  expression  of  his  confidence  in 
God  and  resignation  to  the  Divine  will.     It  was 


114  OLNEY     HYMNS.     ' 

beneath  the  distant  thunder  of  that  impending 
tempest,  and  by  its  gloomy  lightning,  that  he 
wrote  the  words, 

He  plants  His  footsteps  in  the  sea, 
And  rides  upon  the  storm. 

And  even  in  that  forboding  ominous  state  of  mind, 
which  was  followed  indeed  by  the  darkness  of  an 
almost  total  eclipse  for  three  years,  and  a  suspen- 
sion of  his  powers  and  a  lurid  gloom  for  near  four 
years  longer,  he  closed  the  hymn  with  that  confid- 
ing prediction, 

God  is  His  own  interpreter, 
And  He  will  make  it  plain. 

Could  ever  mortal  under  more  sublime  and  affect- 
ing circumstances,  utter  the  words,  "  My  times  are 
in  Thy  hands  \"  That  hymn  was  entitled  "  Light 
shining  out  of  darkness/'  Never  could  Cowper 
have  composed  it  at  such  a  period,  had  he  not  pre- 
viously been  instructed,  subdued,  and  disciplined, 
and  taught  the  exercise  of  a  lasting  and  submis- 
sive faith  through  all  changes,  by  an  experience 
of  the  deepest  sorrow  and  the  sweetest  joy.  It  was 
an  experience  which  we  find  recorded  in  such 
hymns  as  that  entitled  "Afflictions  sanctified  by 
the  Word,"  closing  with  that  sweet  stanza, 

I  love  Thee,  therefore,  0  my  God, 
And  breathe  toward  Thy  dear  abode ; 
"Where,  in  Thy  presence  fully  blest. 
Thy  chosen  saints  forever  rest ; 


OLNEY     HYMNS.  115 

and  in  that  entitled,  "Looking  upward  in  a  storm," 
and  beginning, 

God  of  my  life,  to  Thee  I  call ; 
Afflicted  at  Thy  feet  I  fall; 
When  the  great  water-floods  prevail 
Leave  not  my  trembling  heart  to  fail;' 

and  in  that  entitled  "  Peace  after  a  storm,"  con- 
taining the  stanza, 

0  let  me  then  at  length  be  taught 

"What  I  am  still  so  slow  to  learn, 
That  God  is  love,  and  changes  not, 

Nor  knows  the  shadow  of  a  turn  ; 

and  in  that  entitled  "  Temptation,"  and  beginning, 
"  The  billows  swell,  the  winds  are  high,"  and  end- 
ing with  the  stanza, 

Though  tempest-tossed,  and  half  a  wreck, 
My  Saviour  through  the  floods  I  seek, 
Let  neither  wind  nor  stormy  main 
Force  back  my  shattered  bark  again. 

Out  of  the  same  experience  grew  the  hymn  on 
"  Submission :" 

0  Lord,  my  best  desire  fulfilL 

And  there  is  one  of  painful  interest,  entitled  "  The 
valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,"  expressive  of  the 
sadness  -and  dismay  of  the  soul  beneath  the  smoke 
and  fiery  arrows  that  reach  their  mark  in  the  throb- 
bing heart,  and  fill  it  with  inexpressible  anguish. 
There  are  others  that  describe  with  equal  power, 


116  OLXEY     HYMN  9. 

and  a  serene  and  melodious  harmony  of  joy,  the 
peace  and  happiness  of  the  soul  in  believing,  and 
the  sudden  and  surprising  light  that  rises  out  of 
gloom  upon  the  Christian,  as  a  season  of  clear  shin- 
ing after  rain.  The  whole  collection,  both  of  New- 
ton's and  of  Cowper's  hymns,  is  admirable  ;  but  the 
tracing  of  the  path  of  Cowper's  genius  and  piety 
by  what  may  be  called  the  trail  of  his  sufferings, 
is  one  of  the  most  interesting  and  endearing  invest- 
igations in  all  the  records  of  biography. 

Some  of  these  hymns  should  be  read  in  imme- 
diate connection  with  Cowper's  own  description  of 
his  religious  experience  ;  such  as  those  entitled 
"  Praise  for  faith  ;"  the  "  Heart  healed  and  changed 
by  mercy;"  the  hymn  on  "  Ketirenient;"  the  "  Happy 
change."  Indeed,  they  all  grew  out  of  experience. 
The  theology  in  these  hymns,  the  sense  they  ex- 
press of  dependence  on  God,  the  way  in  which 
Divine  Grace  reveals  the  Saviour,  the  knowledge 
of  the  heart,  and  its  heavenly  healing,  the  native 
blindness,  and  the  new  created  light,  and  the 
power  of  spiritual  vision,  the  divine  discipline, 
both  of  providence  and  grace,  the  various  moods 
and  dangers  of  the  Christian  conflict,  the  yearn- 
ings of  the  heart  after  God  and  heaven,  and  the 
fervent  love  of  Christ,  and  affectionate  confiding 
faith  in  his  blood  ;  all  are  taught  by  the  Divine 
Spirit ;  nothing  is  at  second  hand.  We  have  the 
graphic  picture  of  Cowper's  own  Christian  life,  the 


OLNEY     HYMN*.  117 

life  of  faith,  and  its  conflicts  too,  which  are  parts 
so  essential  of  its  life ;  we  have  its  formation, 
its  happiness,  and  its  trials.  Some  of  Cowper's 
hymns  are  very  much  like  Newton's  ;  as,  for» 
example,  the  familiar  but  graphic  and  most 
truthful  description  he  has  given,  in  such  brief 
compass,  of  the  sinner's  legal  blindness  and  gra- 
cious deliverance.  We  quote  it,  because  it  is 
really  a  rapid  sketch  of  his  own  case,  his  own 
history  : 

Sin  enslaved  me  many  years, 

And  led  me  bound  and  blind, 
Till  at  length  a  thousand  fears 

Came  swarming  o'er  my  mind. 
Where,  said  I  in  deep  distress, 

Will  these  sinful  pleasures  end  ? 
How  shall  I  secure  my  peace, 

And  make  the  Lord  my  friend  ? 

Friends  and  ministers  said  much 

The  Gospel  to  enforce  ; 
But  my  blindness  still  was  such, 

I  chose  a  legal  course ; 
Much  I  fasted,  watched  and  strove, 

Scarce  would  show  my  face  abroad, 
Feared  almost  to  speak  or  move, 

A  stranger  still  to  God. 

Thus,  afraid  to  trust  His  grace, 

Long  time  did  I  rebel 
Till,  despairing  of  my  case, 

Down  at  His  feet  I  fell. 
Then  my  stubborn  heart  He  broke, 

And  subdued  me  to  His  sway ; 
By  a  single  word  He  spoke, 

Thy  sins  are  done  away. 


118  OLNEY     HYMNS. 

How  beautiful,  as  an  experimental  hymn,  drawn  in 
like  manner  from  his  own  history,  is  the  one  en- 
titled "  My  soul  thirsteth  for  God  ;"  also  the  one  en- 
titled "  Dependence  ;"  also  "The  new  convert;" 
and  "  The  welcome  cross ;"  and  "  The  exhortation 
to  prayer  ;"  and  "  Jesus  hastening  to  suffer  ;"  and 
"  The  waiting  soul,"  and  that  affecting  hymn  en- 
titled "  Looking  upward  in  a  storm,"  so  similar  to 
the  equally  graphic  hymn  on  "  Temptation."  Let 
us  select  this  as  an  example  of  the  tone  of  sadness 
and  depression  that  prevails  in  some  of  these  out- 
pourings of  Cowper's  heart,  and  contrast  the  criti- 
cism of  Southey  that  it  was  dangerous  to  the 
Poet,  considering  the  mental  malady  under  which 
he  had  suffered,  to  he  engaged  in  writing  on  such 
subjects  !  Southey  seemed  to  regard  every  expres- 
sion of  grief  on  account  of  sin  and  of  anguish 
urrder  its  burden,  every  lamentation  of  insensibil- 
ity, and  every  tone  of  mourning  on  account  of 
pre  vailing  unbelief  and  darkness,  as  an  indication 
that  Cowper  was  again  upon  the  verge  of  madness. 
He  could  not  or  would  not  understand  either  the 
joy  or  the  grief  of  Cowper's  Christian  experience  ; 
a  vapid  and  desolate  experience  indeed  it  would 
have  been  if  destitute  of  both  ;  yet  to  this  frigid 
condition  must  it  have  been  reduced,  in  order  to 
escape  the  charge  of  a  feverish  enthusiasm.  The 
heart  that  has  learned  neither  understanding  nor 
sympathy  in  the  Christian  conflict  can  have  known 


OLNEY     HYMNS.  119 

little  of  Christianity  itself,  little  or  nothing  of  a 
true  Christian  experience.  What  sweeter  internal 
evidence  of  the  genuineness  and  depth  of  Cowper's 
piety  can  we  conceive  than  the  pathetic  pleadings 
of  his  soul  poured  forth  in  stanzas  like  the  fol- 
lowing : 

God  of  my  life,  to  Thee  I  call, 

Afflicted  at  Thy  feet  I  fall ; 

When  the  great  water-floods  prevail, 

Leave  not  my  trembling  heart  to  fail  1 

Friend  of  the  friendless  and  the  faint ! 
Where  should  I  lodge  my  deep  complaint  ?    • 
Where,  but  with  Thee,  whose  open  door 
Invites  the  helpless  and  the  poor. 

Did  ever  mourner  plead  with  Thee 
And  Thou  refuse  that  mourner's  plea  ? 
Does  not  the  Word  still  fixed  remain 
That  none  shall  seek  Thy  face  in  vain  ? 

That  were  a  grief  I  could  not  bear, 
Didst  Thou  not  hear  and  answer  prayer ; 
But  a  prayer-hearing  answering  God 
Supports  me  under  every  load. 

Fair  is  the  lot  that  's  cast  for  me  ; 
I  have  an  advocate  with  Thee ; 
They  whom  the  world  caresses  most 
Have  no  such  privilege  to  boast. 

Poor  though  I  am,  despised,  forgot, 
Yet  God,  my  God,  forgets  me  not  ; 
And  He  is  safe,  and  must  succeed, 
For  whom  the  Lord  vouchsafes  to  plead. 

The    unhappy,   ill-natured,   almost   malignant 
tone  sometimes  assumed  by  Southey  in  his  criti- 


120 


OLNEY      II  Y  M  N  S 


eisms  on  Cowper's  malady,  and  in  his  remarks  on 
the  tender  religious  sympathy  and  care  of  his 
friends,  reminds  us  of  Saul  under  the  gloom  of  an 
evil  spirit,  casting  javelins  at  Jonathan  and  David. 
The  perversity  of  prejudice,  almost  making  a  fool 
of  the  critic,  even  in  the  very  sphere  in  which  he 
prided  himself  on  his  superior  discrimination,  has 
rarely  ever  been  displayed  so  grossly  as  in  the  fol- 
lowing paragraph  in  regard  to  the  Olney  Hymns, 
and  Xewton's  influence  over  Cowper : — "  Mr. 
Thornton  took  a  thousand  copies  for  distribu- 
tion ;  but  Cowper's  influence  would  never  have 
been  extended  beyond  the  sphere  in  which  those 
hymns  circulated,  and  would  have  been  little 
there,  if  he  himself  had  continued  under  the  in- 
fluence of  Mr.  Newton.  Mr.  Newton  would  not 
have  thought  of  encouraging  him  to  exercise  his 
genius  in  any  thing  but  devotional  poetry  ;  and 
he  found  it  impossible  to  engage  liim  again  in 
that,  because  of  the  unhappy  form  which  his 
hallucination  had  assumed." 

If  Cowper  had  never  written  a  single  line  be- 
yond the  four  or  rive  hymns  in  the  Olney  Collec- 
tion, beginning  "  The  Spirit  breathes  upon  the 
Word,"  "  Far  from  the  world,  0  Lord,  I  flee," 
"  0  for  a  closer  walk  with  God,"  "  God  moves 
in  a  mysterious  way,"  and  :;  There  is  a  foun- 
tain filled  with  blood,"  the  gift  of  those  four  or 
live  hymns  to   the   Church  of  God  by  Cowper's 


ULNEY      HYMNS.  121 

sanctified  genius,  through  Newton's  instrumental- 
ity, would  have  been  a  greater  and  more  precious 
gift  for  literature  and  religion,  perhaps,  than  all 
his  biographer's  voluminous  writings  put  together. 
Be  this  as  it  may,  there  is  no  apology  that  can  be 
given  for  the  distorting  and  discoloring  bitter- 
ness with  which  the  attempt  has  sometimes  been 
made  to  caricature  such  piety  as  was  manifested 
in  the  experience  and  life  of  Christians  like  Wes- 
ley, Whitefield,  Lady  Huntingdon,  Newton,  and 
Cowper. 

6 


CHAPTER    IX. 

MYSTERY  AND  MEANING  OF  THE  DIVINE  DISCIPLINE  WITH  COW- 
PER. — HIS  ACCOUNT  OF  HIMSELF. — INSTRUCTIVE  INTEREST  OF 
THE   AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

No  name  in  the  annals  of  literature  inspires  a 
deeper  personal  interest  than  that  of  Cowper.  A 
mystery  still  hangs  around  the  malady  that 
shrouded  his  mind  in  gloom,  deepened  at  intervals 
into  madness.  It  was  a  mystery  quite  impene- 
trable before  the  publication  of  his  own  memoir 
of  his  remarkable  conversion  ;  a  memoir  that  brings 
us  to  a  point  where  the  rest  of  his  life  and  his  per- 
sonal experiences  are  clearly  traced  by  his  own 
letters.  These  form  the  most  interesting  collection 
to  be  found  in  any  literature  in  the  world.  Not 
only  the  origin  and  progress  of  his  various  literary 
designs,  and  of  the  productions  of  his  genius,  but 
the  different  phases  of  his  mental  disorder,  are  to 
be  traced  step  by  step.  It  is  the  investigation  of 
that  derangement,  so  peculiar,  so  continued,  so 
profound,  that  forms  the  province  of  deepest  inter- 
est in  the  study  of  his  biography  ;  an  investigation 


THE     STRICKEN      DEER.  128 

disclosing  scenes  of  the  divine  providence  in  man's 
discipline,  most  solemn  and  instructive. 

In  one  of  his  letters  to  his  friend  Unwin,  Cowper 
quoted  a  Latin  adage  that  he  remembered,  which 
he  said  would  have  made  a  good  motto  for  his  poem 
of  "  Ketirernent."  Bene  vixit  qui  bene  latuit — 
he  has  lived  well  who  has  been  wisely  hidden.  It 
might  be  applied  to  Cowper' s  whole  life,  withdrawn 
by  Divine  Providence  from  the  busy  world,  but  es- 
pecially to  that  part  of  it  so  sweetly  hid  with  Christ 
in  God,  when  Cowper  first  fled  from  the  world  and 
abode  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  Almighty.  God 
withdrew  him  from  society  to  prejmre  him  for  the 
work  he  had  appointed  for  him  to  accomplish. 

In  the  third  book  of  the  "  Task,"  entitled  the 
Garden,  there  occurs  that  exquisitely  beautiful  and 
affecting  passage,  which  Cowper  himself  has  noted 
in  the  argument  to  the  book,  with  the  words,  Some 
account  of  myself.  It  has  been  a  thousand  times 
read,  a  thousand  times  quoted,  yet  the  thousandth 
time  with  not  less  interest  than  before  : 


I  was  a  stricken  deer,  that  left  the  herd 
Long  since  ;  with  many  an  arrow  deep  infixed 
My  panting  side  was  charged,  when  I  withdrew 
To  seek  a  tranquil  death  in  distant  shades. 
There  was  I  found  by  one  who  had  Himself 
Been  hurt  by  the  archers.     In  His  side  he  bore, 
And  in  His  hands  and  feet,  the  cruel  scars. 
With  gentle  force  soliciting  the  darts, 
He  drew  them  forth,  and  healed,  and  bade  me  live. 
Since  then,  with  few  associates,  in  remote 


124  THE      DREAM      OF      LIFE. 

And  silent  woods  I  wander,  far  from  those 
My  former  partners  of  the  peopled  scene: 
"With  few  associates,  and  not  wishing  more. 
Here  much  I  ruminate,  as  much  I  may, 
With  other  views  of  men  and  manners  now 
Than  once,  and  others  of  a  life  to  come. 
I  see  that  all  are  wanderers ;  gone  astray, 
Each  in  his  own  delusions ;  they  are  lost 
In  chase  of  fancied  happiness,  still  wooed, 
And  never  won.     Dream  after  dream  ensues  ; 
And  still  they  dream  that  they  shall  still  succeed, 
And  still  are  disappointed.     Rings  the  world 
"With  the  vain  stir.     I  sum  up  half  mankind 
And  add  two  thirds  of  the  remaining  half. 
And  find  the  total  of  their  hopes  and  fears 
Dreams,  empty  dreams.     The  million  flit  as  gay 
As  if  created  only  like  the  fly, 
That  spreads  his  motely  wings  in  the  eye  of  noon, 
To  sport  their  season,  and  be  seen  no  more. 
The  rest  are  sober  dreamers,  grave  and  wise, 
And  pregnant  with  discoveries  new  and  rare. 

<C  !}C  JjC  •*»  5jC  3JC 

Ah  1  what  is  life,  thus  spent  ?  and  what  are  they, 
But  frantic,  who  thus  spend  it,  all  for  smoke  ? 
Eternity  for  bubbles  proves  at  last 
A  senseless  bargain.     "When  I  see  such  games 
Played  by  the  creatures  of  a  Power  who  swears 
That  He  will  judge  the  earth,  and  call  the  fool 
To  a  sharp  reckoning  that  has  lived  in  vain  ; 
And  when  I  weigh  their  seeming  wisdom  well. 
And  prove  it  in  the  infallible  result 
So  hollow  and  ?o  false,  I  feel  my  heart 
Dissolve  in  pity,  and  account  the  learn'd, 
If  this  be  learning,  most  of  all  deceived. 
Great  crimes  alarm  the  conscience,  but  it  sleeps, 
"While  thoughtful  man  is  plausibly  amused. 
Defend  me,  therefore,  common  sense,  say  I, 
From  reveries  so  airy,  from  the  toil 
Of  dropping  buckets  into  empty  wells, 
And  growing  old  in  drawing  nothing  up. 


GKACE      ABOUNDING.  125 

We  derive  the  materials  for  this  continued  in- 
vestigation from  Cowper  himself.  Up  to  the  pe- 
riod of  his  recovery  from  the  first  attack  of  madness, 
and  the  time  of  his  serene  and  happy  settlement  in 
Huntingdon,  we  have  his  own  life,  and  the  move- 
ments of  his  mind  and  heart,  recorded  hy  himself 
with  a  good  degree  of  minuteness,  and  a  faithful, 
unsparing  severity  of  moral  self-judgment.  From 
that  period  to  the  second  access  of  mental  disorder 
and  profound  gloom,  we  have  his  own  letters,  the 
Olney  Hymns,  and  that  very  important  development 
of  his  Hie  unintentionally  afforded  in  his  own  deeply 
interesting  and  affecting  memoir  of  the  life,  con- 
version, and  death  of  his  beloved  brother  at  Cam- 
bridge. The  autobiography,  in  which  the  whole 
and  only  correct  account  of  his  first  insanity  is  con- 
tained, with  all  that  led  to  it,  and  all  that  followed 
it,  forms  one  of  the  most  thrilling,  instructive,  and 
valuable  pieces  of  a  similar  nature,  next  to  Bun- 
yan's  "  Grace  Abounding,"  to  be  found  in  the  En- 
glish language.  Indeed,  in  some  respects  it  is  even 
more  wonderful  than  that,  and  equally  precious  as 
a  record  of  the  grace  of  God.  It  was  written  by 
Cowper  in  an  interval  of  clear  light,  in  the  enjoy- 
ment of  the  presence  of  the  Saviour,  in  the  serenest 
peace  of  mind,  in  the  exercise  of  an  unclouded 
judgment  passing  sentence  on  the  transactions  that 
rose  before  his  memory. 

It  is  the  onlv  revelation  of  the  dealings  of  Divine 


126 


AUTOBIOG  K  A  P  II  Y 


providence  and  grace,  the  only  solution  of  otherwise 
unmingled,  insolvable  mysteries  or  contradictions. 
Neglecting  or  concealing  that  revelation,  men  have 
attempted  to  charge  Cowper's  lunacy  of  mind  upon 
what  they  have  called  the  gloom  or  fanaticism  of  his 
evangelical  belief  and  experience.  But  the  auto- 
biography and  the  letters,  instead  of  throwing  the 
blame  of  his  madness  on  the  type  or  the  fervor  of  his 
religion,  cast  that  burden  wholly  and  distinctly  on 
his  state  of  prayerlessness,  impenitence,  unbelief, 
and  alienation  from  God,  and  present  his  religious 
experience  as  the  only  cure  of  his  mental  malady, 
the  only  lasting  relief  from  his  misery  and  dark- 
ness. They  show  that  religious  anxiety  had  nothing 
to  do  with  exciting  Cowper's  derangement,  or  pro- 
ducing it  at  its  origin,  or  exasperating  it  when  de- 
veloped ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  that  the  suicidal 
despair,  which  was  the  result  of  a  complication  of 
distresses  of  mind,  heart,  sensibilities,  and  nervous 
system,  from  which  all  religious  impressions  were 
absolutely  excluded,  was  itself,  when  God  had 
spared  his  life,  the  overruled  and  merciful  occasion 
of  his  first  salutary,  deep  conviction  of  sin  ;  was 
indeed  the  cause  of  an  entire  change  in  the  position 
of  his  being,  such  a  change  as  brought  him  at 
length  to  a  calm,  submissive  resting  on  the  bosom 
of  his  Saviour,  a  release  from  darkness  into  the  light 
of  heaven,  and  a  serene  enjoyment  and  exercise 
both  of  reason  and  of  faith. 


OF     COWI'ER.  127 

Now  this  whole  account  was  for  a  long  time  un- 
known, unpublished,  hidden.  Some  men  were 
aware  of  its  existence,  but  Cowper's  own  biogra- 
phers ignored  it,  and  preferred  to  leave  the  sub- 
ject of  his  madness  enveloped  in  a  mystery  that 
permitted  those  who  hated  evangelical  truth  and 
piety  to  set  it  down  to  the  score  of  religious  fanat- 
icism and  bigotry.  Others  contradicted  it,  and 
refused  to  take  the  testimony  of  Cowper  himself 
as  to  the  character  of  his  unregenerate  life,  as  to 
the  absolute  irreligion  of  the  whole  of  it,  until 
there  ensued  the  mighty  change  in  his  feelings 
and  habits  wrought  by  Divine  grace.  They  could 
not  bear  to  relinquish  Cowper's  exquisite  mind 
and  nature  as  having  needed  any  supernatural  in- 
fluence to  constitute  it  a  Christian  nature,  or  as 
having  really  been  the  subject  of  that  vulgar  fanat- 
ical experience  called  conversion.  They  projected 
the  idea  of  the  interesting,  timid,  sensitive  being, 
whom  they  had  known  only  through  his  poetry,  or 
the  wide  circle  of  his  admiring  friends,  back  upon 
the  period  of  his  early  life  ;  and  they  scorned  the 
thought  of  such  a  want  of  charity  as  to  suppose 
that  such  an  innocent  being  could,  in  his  right 
mind,  have  accused  himself  of  deserving  God's  dis- 
pleasure. They  chose  still  to  persevere  in  the  ac- 
customed cant  of  infidelity  and  formalism,  which 
shrugged  its  shoulders  and  turned  up  its  nose  at 
the  mention  of  experimental  piety,  and  reasoned 


128 


MISTAKES      O  F      I'llIDE, 


upon  Cowper's  own  religious  experience  as  part  of 
his  monomania  or  madness,  exasperated  if  not  in- 
flicted by  injudicious  theological  advisers. 

Now  this  is  a  very  general  and  natural  delusion. 
Nevertheless,  whatever  of  supposed  piety  there  may 
be,  whatever  of  unsullied  purity  of  life,  whatever 
of  outward  morality,  whatever  of  seeming  loveli- 
ness of  character,  we  know  that  it  is  vain  and  de- 
lusive, unless  the  heart  has  been  humbled  before 
God  and  brought  to  the  acceptance  of  His  grace, 
as  free,  undeserved  grace  to  a  guilty,  lost  sinner. 
There  is  no  real  piety,  no  true  sanctity  of  life,  no 
real  holiness,  until  God's  mercy  in  Christ,  God's 
mercy  to  the  guilty  and  the  lost,  has  been  sought 
and  received  in  God's  own  way,  by  a  humble,  broken 
heart  and  contrite  spirit.  But  our  natural  pride  is 
wholly  averse  from  such  a  procedure  and  opposed 
to  it.  And  yet  that  pride  itself  may  be  effectually 
concealed  from  one's  own  view,  if  there  has  not 
been  a  self-searching  and  self-knowledge  of  sin 
and  depravity,  by  the  teaching  of  the  Holy  Spirit, 
in  the  light  of  the  spirituality  of  God's  law.  There 
have  been  men  who  seemed  naturally  to  have  all 
the  humility  and  docility  of  children,  learned  men 
without  any  of  the  pride  of  learning,  modest  and 
unassuming,  and  of  highest  integrity  and  honor- 
able feeling  in  all  the  business  of  society  and  inter- 
course of  life,  who  have,  nevertheless,  denied  and 
rejected  with  indignation   the   necessity   of  self- 


MISTAKES     OF     PRIDE.  129 

abasement  and  self-loathing  at  the  feet  of  the  Sa- 
viour, and  the  truth  of  the  worthlessness  of  human 
virtues  without  faith  in  His  redemption,  and  reli- 
ance upon  that  alone. 

But  in  such  very  indignation  at  the  imputation 
of  utter  worthlessness  to  what  is  assumed  as  hu- 
man virtue  ;  indignation,  as  if  the  noblest  qualities 
were  despised,  belied,  and  libeled  ;  in  that  very 
indignation  which  seems  to  the  deluded  mind  but 
a  noble  fervor  of  admiration  for  what  is  admirable 
in  mankind,  and  the  defense  of  humanity  itself 
from  slander,  there  is  the  plain  development  of  the 
sin  by  which  the  angels  fell ;  the  pride  that  chal- 
lenges the  regard  of  God  himself  for  pretended 
human  goodness,  and  demands  the  mercy  of  God 
on  account  of  such  goodness,  and  not  merely  on 
account  of  Christ.  But,  as  Cowper  remarked  in 
one  of  his  letters,  mercy  deserved  ceases  to  be 
mercy,  and  must  take  the  name  of  justice.  Here, 
then,  must  the  purest  being  come  where  Cowper 
came,  here  the  most  unsullied  soul,  the  loveliest 
and  most  amiable  nature,  the  strictest  and  most 
virtuous  moralist,  to  this  position  at  the  foot  of 
the  cross,  on  a  level  with  the  most  miserable  pub- 
licans and  harlots,  or  there  is  no  piety  and  no  sal- 
vation. Let  this  be  understood,  or  nothing  in  the 
Gospel  is  understood  rightly.     We  know  nothing 

truly  of  Christ,  or  the  way  of  salvation,  till  we 
6* 


130  r  A  Li  I     IUD6MKN  I  B  . 

know  Him  in   the   self-abasement   of  a  contrite 
spirit. 

It  might  have  been  expected  that  at  so  late  a 
period  as  1836,  such  a  biographer  as  Southey,  with 
Cowper's  own  Memoir,  and  the  whole  series  of  his 
letters  in  full  before  him,  would  not  have  stooped 
to  join  in  the  hunt  with  such  sneering  infidelity. 
Yet  we  find  him  writing  strange  things  in  refer- 
ence both  to  Cowper's  own  religious  enjoyment, 
which  it  is  intimated  was  delusive,  and  ought  not  to 
have  been  sustained  as  true,  and  also  to  the  influence 
of  those  dear  Christian  friends,  among  whom  Mrs. 
Unwin  and  John  Newton  were  the  most  intimate, 
who  rejoiced  with  him  in  his  religious  joy.  Sou- 
they argues  that  they  ought  to  have  discouraged 
that  joy  as  an  illusion,  and  that  their  not  taking 
that  course,  but  on  the  contrary  confirming  him 
in  the  belief  that  his  hapjnness  was  the  work  of 
God's  grace,  prevented  their  having  any  power 
afterward  to  comfort  him  in  gloom,  and  dispossess 
him  of  the  delusions  of  despair.  They  encouraged 
him  at  first  in  what  Southey  intimates  were  false 
raptures  of  piety,  the  work  of  an  insane  mind,  and 
the  consequence  was  that  they  could  do  nothing 
with  him  to  dissipate  his  darkness,  when  the  clouds 
came  upon  him,  or  to  convince  him  that  his  de- 
spair also  was  a  false  despair.  Because  they  did 
not  in  the  first  case  believe,  and  labor  to  make 
Cowper  believe,  that  the  light  and  grace  of  that 


FALSE     JUDGMEN  T  S  .  131 

ecstatic  blessedness  which  he  knew  when  first  he 
saw  the  Lord,  were  a  mere  illusive  fancy,  the  heat 
of  a  mere  delusive  imagination,  therefore  they  could 
not  in  the  last  case  persuade  him  or  encourage 
him  to  believe  that  the  gloom  and  blackness  of  a 
despairing  soul  were  of  the  same  imaginary  nature. 
The  argument  is,  that  if  they  had  denied  the 
grace  and  light  at  first  to  have  been  from  heaven, 
they  might  have  persuaded  him  afterward  that 
the  darkness  and  despair  were  only  a  dream  from 
hell ;  but  that,  having  encouraged  him  in  a  lie  at 
first,  as  from  heaven,  they  could  not  dispossess 
him  of  the  lie  afterward,  as  from  hell.  Such,  says 
Southey,  "  are  the  perilous  consequences  of  relig- 
ious enthusiasm.  He  had  been  encouraged  to 
believe  that  there  was  nothing  illusive  in  the 
raptures  of  his  first  recovery  ;  and  they  who  had 
confirmed  him  in  that  belief  argued  in  vain  against 
his  illusions  when  they  were  of  an  opposite  char- 
acter." A  singularly  wise  physician  of  a  mad- 
house would  a  writer  like  this  have  made  !  One 
can  not  help  reflecting  how  fearful  from  the  outset 
must  have  been  the  result,  had  the  care  of  Cow- 
per's  soul  fallen  into  the  same  hands  with  that  of 
his  memory. 


CHAPTER   X. 


THE  CURE  BY  DIVINE  GRACE. — THE  MENTAL  MALADY  MADE  SUB- 
SERVIENT. BY  SUCH  GRACE,  TO  A  SWEETER  POETRY. — SECRET 
OF   THE    ALL-RULING   CHARM    OF    COWPER'S   POETRY. 


The  autobiography  of  the  poet  is  a  demonstra- 
tion that  nothing  but  Divine  Grace  effected  the 
completion  and  permanence  of  Cowper's  cure,  and 
that  nothing  but  the  ministrations  of  the  Spirit  of 
God  preserved  his  mind  from  utter  ruin.  We  say 
completion  and  permanence  ;  and  in  the  best 
sense,  the  true,  eternal  sense,  such  was  the  cure. 
Cowper  could  say,  though  "  I  walk  in  the  midst 
of  trouble,  Thou  wilt  revive  me.  The  Lord  will 
perfect  that  which  concerneth  me."  Those  heav- 
enly ministrations,  having  renewed  his  heart,  and 
sanctified  the  fountain  of  principle  and  feeling, 
enabled  him  to  write  with  all  the  sweetness  and 
glory  of  a  piety  kindled  at  the  cross,  even  at  the 
very  time  when,  through  the  partial  prevalence  of 
his  mental  malady,  his  own  personal  Christian 
hope  was  in  a  state  of  suspended  animation.  For 
more  reasons  than  one,  if  it  had  not  been  for  Cow- 


cowper's    piety.  138 

j)er's  piety,  we  should  never  have  had  his  poetry. 
His  sweet  religious  experience  was  a  quiet  harbor, 
a  serene  and  lovely  nook,  into  which  the  ship- 
wrecked mind  was  guided,  that  otherwise  would, 
by  the  ragged  reefs  and  waves,  have  been  quite 
dashed  in  pieces.  There  in  that  undisturbed  re- 
tirement he  lived  as  a  mental  and  spiritual  Kobin- 
son  Crusoe,  cut  off  from  the  great  world,  in  a 
solitude  peopled  mainly  by  his  own  affections. 
His  mental  malady  indeed  returned  at  intervals  ; 
it  deepened  and  darkened  at  the  end  of  life,  till 
beneath  its  thickest  gloom  he  went  down  into  the 
grave.  He  could  say  with  Job,  "  I  have  made  my 
bed  in  the  darkness,  and  on  mine  eyelids  is  the 
shadow  of  death  f  and  in  truth  no  small  portion 
of  his  life  was  a  passage  through  the  valley  of 
that  dread  shadow.  But  his  spiritual  malady  had 
been  cured  forever,  and  the  vision  of  his  soul  had 
been  purified,  so  that  never  again  did  he  see 
through  the  eye  of  this  world  merely,  nor  ever 
again  did  that  madness  return  upon  him,  which 
Divine  inspiration  hath  assured  us  is  in  the  hearts 
of  all  men  naturally  while  they  live,  who  live 
astray  from  God. 

From  that  madness  he  had  been  completely  re- 
deemed, and  to  that  glorious  redemption  he  owed 
it,  beyond  all  doubt,  that  the  recurrence  of  the 
mental  disease  did  not  swallow  up  every  thing. 
He  lived  in  the  light  of  heaven  for  many  years  ; 


134  COWPBB'fl     PUTT 

eight  years  may  be  called  many  in  a  life  of  such 
experience  as  his  ;  he  lived  that  space  of  time  at 
once,  almost  uninterrupted,  in  serene  enjoyment 
of  religious  peace,  with  great  delight  in  religious 
duties,  in  habits  of  communion  with  his  God  and 
Saviour,  the  sacredness  and  sweetness  of  which 
only  his  own  exquisite  poetry  could  delineate.  To 
the  power  so  gained,  the  habits  so  formed,  the 
grace  so  long  baptizing  him,  he  owed  the  enjoy- 
ment and  heavenly  exercise  of  his  mental  facul- 
ties, even  when  he  seemed  to  himself  as  a  spectre 
shrouded  in  mental  gloom.  All  that  while,  his  sun 
was  not  withdrawn,  but  though  clouds  and  dark- 
ness intercepted  its  light,  so  that  he  had  little  or 
no  comfort  and  joy  of  its  direct  shining,  yet  his  life 
went  on  beneath  its  sanctifying  influence,  and  the 
productions  of  his  genius  grew  in  its  holy  radiance. 
A  gloomy  day,  though  not  a  day  of  sunshine,  is 
.still  a  day  oi'mnligJit;  a  day,  because  the  sun  has 
risen,  and  is  running  his  appointed  course  ;  and 
though  the  eye  may  not  behold  him,  yet  the  life 
of  nature  plays  beneath  his  power. 

Moreover,  not  only  was  it  the  regeneration 
of  Cowper's  heart,  and  his  first  enjoyment  of  the 
"  peace  of  God  that  passe th  all  understanding," 
that  preserved  his  mind  from  utter  shipwreck,  but 
it  was  Divine  grace  that  transfigured  and  created 
anew  his  native  genius.  By  no  possibility  could 
he  ever,  in  the  exercise  of  his  native  powers,  had 


A     FO  U  N  T  A  1  N      OF      P  U  E  T  B  Y  .  135 

they  not  been  supernaturally  illuminated,  have  ac- 
complished what  he  did,  not  even  if  his  mind  had 
always  been  as  serene  and  sane  as  Shakspeare's, 
though  no  shadow  of  eclipse  had  darkened  his 
reason,  nor  any  cloud  of  gloom  disturbed  his  men- 
tal faculties.  The  glory  of  another  world,  not 
this,  shines  through  his  poetry,  and  by  the  in- 
spiration of  a  higher  grace  than  that  of  native 
genius  merely,  his  imagination  was  raised  to  be- 
hold it,  or  rather  its  glory  fell  upon  his  imagina- 
tion through  the  vision  of  his  heart. 

And,  in  truth,  it  is  the  religion  of  Cowper's 
poetry  that  constitutes  its  grand  all-ruling  charm, 
even  with  the  irreligious  world,  though  many 
would  not  be  willing  to  acknowledge  it.  The 
sweet  religious  influence  surrounds  and  pervades 
it  like  an  atmosphere.  It  is  an  atmosphere  so 
serene,  so  sacred,  so  transparent,  that  the  com- 
monest scenery  is  rendered  beautiful  and  at- 
tractive by  it.  The  same  themes,  the  same 
thoughts,  the  same  circumstances,  would  have 
been  wholly  different,  and  inferior  in  interest, 
had  there  been  a  different  atmosphere,  unirra- 
diated by  the  coloring  of  a  profound  spiritual  ex- 
perience. Moral  and  economical  truth  itself  be- 
came religious,  in  passing  through  his  mind,  and 
the  proverbs  of  this  world's  wisdom  received  a 
transfiguration  from  the  presence  of  higher  reali- 
ties, connecting  them   with   the   spiritual  world. 


136  (   0  W  P  B  B'fi     P  1  B  I  V. 

The  same  subjects,  in  the  same  style,  and  by  a 
genius  not  inferior  to  Cowper's,  might  have  been 
ented  ;  but,  without  the  omnipresent  charm 
of  Cowper's  piety,  they  would  have  been  com- 
paratively unattractive. 

There  is  a  tenderness  and  pensiveness  arising  from 
the  very  imperfection  of  that  piety,  that  is,  from 
its  personal  quality  of  despondency,  which  his 
poetry  could  not  have  possessed  except  for  the  pe- 
culiarity of  his  own  experience.  His  subjective 
despair,  like  some  of  the  stops  in  a  great  organ, 
has  communicated  an  indefinable  charm  to  the 
strains  of  his  melody,  without  changing  either  the 
combination  or  individuality  of  the  notes.  His 
genius,  under  the  influence  of  his  piety,  was  like 
a  piano  with  the  Eolian  attachment,  rendering  the 
whole  an  instrument  of  a  vastly  higher  order.  Men 
of  the  world  were  attracted,  without  knowing  what 
it  was  that  peculiarly  attracted  them.  Even  the 
philosopher  Franklin,  after  long  abjuration  of 
poetry,  was  delighted  with  Cowper's  first  volume, 
and  while  he  has  given  the  reasons  for  his  admira- 
tion, according  to  his  philosophic  judgment  and 
excellent  common  sense,  there  was  still  the  invis- 
ible, indefinable  charm,  which  he  knew  not,  or  could 
not  recognize,  or  name,  but  without  which  we  are 
sure  he  would  not  have  been  so  deeply  moved.  It 
was  the  tone  of  the  soul,  renewed  by  Divine  grace, 
and  so  renewed,  that  whatever  subject  occupied  it. 


FASCINATION      OF      DESPAIR.  137 

whatever  wind  swept  over  the  Harp  of  Immortality, 
the  strains  breathed  forth  would  carry  something 
of  that  celestial  influence. 

We  suppose  that  if  an  angel,  concealed  amid  a 
throng  of  revelers,  were  to  sing  "  Auld  Lang  Syne," 
there  would  be  such  a  tone  of  heaven  in  the  melody, 
such  a  deep  soul  of  spiritual  character  and  power 
inspiring  it,  and  breathing  from  it,  that  the  mer- 
riment would  cease,  and  the  voice  of  the  revelers 
be  hushed  in  solemn  silence.  A  spell  mysterious 
and  irresistible  would  steal  upon  the  heart,  and  the 
sentiment  of  evil  would  be  overawed  by  the  pre- 
sentiment of  good,  the  present,  though  unknown 
and  unacknowledged  soul  of  holiness.  And  we 
may  suppose  that  if  one  of  the  melodies  of  heaven 
could  be  sung  by  a  lost  spirit  of  the  world  of  woe, 
concealed  in  human  shape  among  the  choir  of  a 
Christian  assembly,  there  would  be  that  irresistible 
character  and  soul  of  despair  prevailing  over  the 
joy  of  the  song,  that  the  whole  multitude  of  lis- 
teners might  be  melted  into  tears,  or  awed  in  a 
mysterious  dread,  unconscious  of  the  cause,  instead 
of  yielding  to  the  joy  of  an  anthem  of  glory.  The 
power  of  perfect  and  domineering  character  is  itself 
absorbing  and  supreme,  and  combined  with  genius, 
or  when  genius  creates  its  expression,  there  is  the 
charm  of  a  personal  presence  in  every  thing  that 
the  author  writes. 


CHAPTER    XI. 

HOPE  SUSPENDED,.  BUT  PRIDE  SUBDUED. — THE  CHILD  OF  GOD 
WALKING  IX  DAEKNESS. — NATURE  OF  THE  LIGHT  OF  LIFE. — 
COWPEE'S    ENCOURAGEMENT    AND    ADVICE    TO    OTHERS. 

It  may  be  named  as  another  effect  of  Cowper's 
despondency,  and  of  the  peculiarity  of  God's  dis- 
cipline with  him,  that  in  weaning  him  from  the 
world,  and  making  its  vanities  indifferent  to  him, 
it  likewise  so  effectually  broke  his  pride,  and  pur- 
ified his  moral  and  -mental  vision  from  the  spirit 
of  self-seeking  ;  so  that  while  hope  as  to  another 
world  was  almost  suspended,  the  common  motives 
as  to  this  world  were  suspended  or  inactive  also,  in 
a  great  degree  ;  so  that  truth  comes  to  us  in  his 
poetry  with  a  sincerity  and  artlessness,  an  unam- 
bitious simplicity,  purity,  and  beauty,  which  is  as 
the  yery  reflection  of  the  firmament  of  heaven 
thrown  on  us  without  spot  or  wrinkle  from  the 
mirror  of  his  mind.  The  rays  of  truth  and  of  ce- 
lestial wisdom  were  not,  in  his  case,  refracted  by 
the  ordinary  medium  of  ambition,  the  thirst  for 
human  applause  ;   but   came  straight  through  his 


THE      CHILD      OF      GOD.  139 

heart,  baptized  only  or  mainly  with  the  heavenly 
affections,  and  the  pervading  melancholy  tender- 
ness that  reigned  there. 

For  the  heavenly  affections  were  prevalent  and 
living,  were  quick  and  active,  rarely  reached  by  the 
blight,  whatever  it  was,  that  blasted  the  blossoms 
of  a  personal  hope.  In  this  respect  his  religion  was 
the  most  unselfish  that  can  well  be  conceived  of. 
There  was  an  inner  sanctuary,  a  holy  of  holies,  in 
which  it  lived  and  reigned  as  God's  fire,  for  God's 
love  and  approbation,  though  a  personal  hope  that 
he  himself  was  interested  in  God's  mercy  seldom 
was  indulged  or  expressed  during  long  intervals  of 
the  prevalence  of  his  disease  ;  and  there  was  a  pall 
of  gloom  let  down  before  his  spiritual  vision  that 
no  effort  could  penetrate.  Yet  through  all  this 
darkness  and  paralysis  of  the  hopeful  part  of  his 
being,  the  sensitive  and  emotive  part  remained 
warm,  affectionate,  and  breathing  with  heavenly 
life.  The  reef  on  which  his  hope  had  struck  re- 
mained ;  and  the  tide  of  Divine  grace,  though  it 
flooded  every  other  part  of  his  nature,  never  rose 
high  enough  to  set  that  hope  at  liberty. 

There  were  long  intervals  in  which  he  could  not 
even  pray  ;  and  still,  with  this  petrifaction  of  his 
religious  existence  in  that  direction,  as  if  indeed 
the  finger  of  doom  had  been  already  laid  upon  it, 
there  were  all  the  lineaments  of  a  child  of  God, 
all  the  gentleness,  humility,  meekness,  patience, 


140  THE      CHILD      OF      DOD 

tenderness  of  conscience,  and  gracious  heavenly  sen- 
sibility, that  must  have  been  traced,  had  the  spell 
of  his  disease  been  broken,  to  an  uninterrupted 
communion  of  the  soul  with  God.  It  is  a  most 
surprising,  if  not  quite  solitary  instance.  It  was  a 
miracle  of  grace  almost  as  wonderful  as  if  the  sun 
in  the  physical  world  should  be  blotted  from  the 
heavens,  and  yet  the  earth  kept  rolling  on  her  axis, 
and  producing  her  accustomed  fruits  in  their  sea- 
sons. The  genealogical  chain  of  Christian  graces 
and  enjoyments  so  strikingly  set  forth  by  Paul  in 
the  fifth  of  Eomans  seemed,  in  Cowper's  case,  sun- 
dered in  the  middle,  and  Hope  was  dropped  out ; 
there  was  tribulation,  patience,  experience,  but  not 
hope  ;  and  though  there  was  undoubted  proof  of 
the  love  of  God  shed  abroad  in  the  heart,  yet  the 
sense  of  this  blessing,  the  witness  of  the  Spirit,  and 
the  earnest  of  the  inheritance,  seemed  wholly  want- 
ing. And  yet  there  was  the  most  humble  submis- 
siveness  to  God's  will,  under  this  distressing,  and 
sometimes  tremendous  dispensation. 

We  have,  perhaps,  seen  such  instances  ourselves, 
in  men  who  were  never  poets,  though  sincere  Chris- 
tians, and  notwithstanding  their  gloom  and  dark- 
ness, eminent  Christians.  We  have  seen  a  child 
of  God  under  an  impression  for  years,  of  almost  the 
profoundest  despair,  yet  so  kind,  so  sympathizing, 
so  conscientious,  so  benevolent,  that  others  could 
not  doubt,  though  he  himself  could  never  believe 


W  A  L  K  1  N  Q      IN      DARKNESS.  141 

that  God  was  with  him  as  his  everlasting  Saviour 
and  friend.  Such  are  extreme  instances  of  what 
that  admirable  old  Puritan  writer,  Thomas  Good- 
win, considered  with  so  much  carefulness  and  ten- 
derness in  a  work  given  to  the  subject,  which  he 
called  "  The  Child  of  God  walking  in  Darkness." 
Such  cases  are  certainly  provided  for  in  the  Word 
of  God,  and  may  be  considered  as  predicted  in  some 
measure  in  that  very  striking  passage  in  Isaiah, 
"  Who  is  among  you  that  feareth  the  Lord,  that 
obeyeth  the  voice  of  his  servant,  that  walketh  in 
darkness  and  hath  no  light  ?  Let  him  trust  in  the 
name  of  the  Lord,  and  stay  upon  his  God/'  And 
how  sympathizing,  gracious,  and  provident  is  God 
in  regard  to  all  the  distresses  of  His  people,  all  pos- 
sible forms  of  their  spiritual  as  well  as  temporal 
evils,  in  that  He  has  not  only  given  examples  in  His 
Word  of  just  such  cases,  but  has  mercifully  laid 
down  rules  both  for  the  encouragement  and  direc- 
tion of  His  afflicted  ones,  that  they  may  not  despair 
nor  ever  conclude,  as  men  are  apt  to  do  in  such 
trials,  that  there  never  was  or  could  be  any  such 
case  before. 

Our  theological  philosophers,  who  assert  that  for 
a  child  of  God  truly  fearing  the  Lord,  and  desiring 
in  all  things  to  please  Him,  there  never  can  be 
such  a  thing  as  spiritual  darkness,  are  the  worst  of 
all  comforters.  The  asserted  rule  of  such  uninter- 
rupted light  and  enjoyment  is  almost  as  bad  as  the 


142 


I  HE     CHILD     U  P     Q  O  D 


law  of  the  Ten  Couimandments  for  life  and  salva- 
tion ;  it  strikes  you  dead  ;  and  if  all  is  sin  in  the 
Christian  life  that  is  not  light  and  enjoyment,  some 
of  the  humblest,  most  contrite,  most  devoutly 
breathing  and  holy  walking  souls  that  ever  lived, 
have  lived  long  intervals  in  sin,  even  when  panting 
after  God  as  the  hart  panteth  after  the  water- 
brook.  Most  true  it  is,  and  forever  blessed  be  the 
Lord's  name,  for  the  assurance  that  he  that  follow- 
eth  Him  shall  not  walk  in  darkness,  but  shall  have 
the  light  of  life.  But  equally  true  it  is  that 
the  light  of  life  may  be  within  the  soul,  and  also 
upon  its  path,  and  yet  the  eye  of  the  soul  may  be 
so  holden  as  not  to  see  and  know  a  present  Saviour, 
nor  have  the  assurance  of  an  interest  in  him.  For 
a  long,  long  time,  this  was  the  case  in  Cowper's 
experience. 

Yet,  even  in  the  midst  of  his  own  darkness,  he 
could  encourage  others,  and  reason  with  delightful 
Christian  wisdom,  tenderness,  and  truth,  on  cases 
somewhat  similar  to  his  own.  In  a  letter  to  New- 
ton concerning  the  doubts  of  his  beloved  wife  as  to 
her  own  interest  in  heavenly  things,  Cowper  says, 
"  None  intimately  acquainted  with  her  as  we 
have  been,  could  doubt  it.  She  doubted  it,  in- 
deed, herself ;  but  though  it  is  not  our  duty  to 
doubt,  any  more  than  it  is  our  privilege,  I  have 
always  considered  the  self-condemning  spirit,  to 
which  such  doubts  are  principally  owing,  as  one  of 


WALKING     IN     DARKNESS.  143 

the  most  favorable  symptoms  of  a  nature  spirit- 
ually renewed." 

Cowper  would  often  address  letters  of  sympathy 
and  consolation  to  afflicted  friends,  as,  for  exam- 
ple, to  Dr.  Bagot,  Mr.  Hurdis,  Hayley,  and  others, 
and  as  he  never  wrote  what  he  did  not  feel,  and 
never  out  of  mere  compliment  either  to  the  dead 
or  the  living,  we  can  not  but  find  in  his  references 
to  the  time  of  an  anticipated  happy  meeting  in 
a  better  world,  a  proof  that  amid  all  his  personal 
despair  he  was  still  the  "  prisoner  of  hope"  himself 
and  kept  in  the  bottom  of  his  heart  something 
of  the  encouragement  he  gave  to  others.  To  Dr. 
Bagot,  in  sympathy  for  a  fresh  and  common  sorrow, 
he  says  :  "  Both  you  and  I  have  this  comfort  when 
deprived  of  those  we  love  ;  at  our  time  of  life,  we 
have  every  reason  to  believe  that  the  deprivation 
can  not  be  long.  Our  sun  is  setting  too,  and 
wThen  the  hour  of  rest  arrives,  we  shall  rejoin  your 
brother,  and  many  whom  we  have  tenderly  loved, 
our  forerunners  into  a  better  country."  Cowper 
wrote  this  in  a  season  of  gloom,  in  1793. 

Of  another  instance  of  spiritual  distress,  in  which 
Cowper  took  a  deep  concern,  he  thus  writes  to  Mr. 
Newton :  "I  have  no  doubt  that  it  is  distemper. 
But  distresses  of  mind  that  are  occasioned  by  dis- 
temper are  the  most  difficult  of  all  to  deal  with. 
They  refuse  all  consolation,  they  will  hear  no  rea- 
son.   God  only,  by  His  own  immediate  impressions, 


144 


I' 1  E  T  Y      A  M  ID      GLOOM. 


can  remove  them ;  as  after  an  experience  of 
thirteen  years'  misery  I  can  abundantly  testify" 
This  was  written  in  the  year  1787,  and  yet,  in  the 
midst  of  that  misery  he  could  look  back,  past  those 
thirteen  years,  to  a  period  of  light  and  happiness, 
so  radiant,  so  sweet,  so  serene,  so  heavenly,  and  so 
long-continued,  that  he  would  sometimes  say,  in 
reference  to  God's  mercy  in  those  comforts,  and 
the  certainty  and  celestial  reality  of  them,  that  he 
could  not  be  so  duped,  even  by  the  arch-enemy 
himself,  as  to  be  made  to  question  the  divine  na- 
ture of  them.  And  with  what  affecting  tenderness, 
when  he  left  Olney,  that  scene  of  so  much  bliss  and 
so  much  wretchedness,  does  he  record  his  feelings ! 
"I  recollected  that  I  had  once  been  happy  there, 
and  could  not,  without  tears  in  mine  eyes,  bid  adieu 
to  a  place  in  which  God  had  so  often  found  me. 
The  human  mind  is  a  great  mystery ;  mine,  at 
least,  appeared  to  me  to  be  such  upon  this  occa- 
sion. I  found  that  I  had  not  only  had  a  tender- 
ness for  that  ruinous  abode,  because  it  had  once 
known  me  happy  in  the  presence  of  God  ;  but 
that  even  the  distress  I  had  suffered  for  so  long  a 
time  on  account  of  His  absence,  had  endeared  it  to 
me  as  much."  Surely  this  is  a  most  striking  proof 
of  the  depth  of  Cowper's  piety  as  well  as  the  dark- 
ness and  severity  of  his  gloom. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

THE  SICKNESS,  CONVERSION,  AND  DEATH  OF  COWPER'S  BROTHER, 
— COWPER'S  SURPRISE  AND  JOY  AT  SUCH  A  MANIFESTATION  OF 
GRACE. 

Let  us  now  return  to  the  record  of  his  life  when 
it  was  passing  so  sweetly  in  a  retirement  filled  with 
sacred  duties  and  enjoyments.  The  first  event  that 
interrupted  its  quiet  and  happy  course,  was  the 
death  of  his  dear  brother  at  Cambridge,  in  1770. 
But  that  sickness  and  departure  were  attended  by 
a  manifestation  of  God's  grace  so  remarkable,  so 
clear,  so  triumphant,  that  the  affliction  was  quite 
disarmed  of  its  sting,  and  passed  in  the  experience 
of  Cowper  rather  as  a  bright  angel  of  mercy  than 
a  cloud  of  trial  and  distress.  From  the  first  mo- 
ment of  Cowper's  own  conversion,  he  had  not 
ceased  to  interest  himself  with  affectionate  earn- 
estness in  behalf  of  the  soul  of  his  brother,  whose 
views  then  were  any  thing  but  evangelical,  and 
who,  though  a  man  of  strict  morality,  high  intel- 
lectual accomplishments,  refined  taste,  a  most 
amiable  temper,  and  a  minister  of  the  Church  of 
7 


146         FASHIONABLE      SKEPTICISM. 

England,  was  yet  one  among  the  many  who  counted 
the  doctrine  of  regeneration  by  the  Holy  Spirit  as 
a  fanatical  delusion.  When  Newton  afterward 
published  Cowper's  deeply  interesting  and  most 
instructive  narrative  of  the  conversion  and  death 
of  his  beloved  brother,  it  was  prefaced  with  some 
notice  of  that  prevalent  skepticism,  under  the 
power  and  fashion  of  which,  an  avowed  attachment 
to  the  doctrines  of  the  Gospel  was  regarded  as 
a  fit  subject  for  ridicule.  "  The  very  name  of  vi- 
tal, experimental  religion,"  said  In  ewton,  "  excites 
contempt  and  scorn,  and  provokes  resentment. 
The  doctrines  of  regeneration  by  the  powerful 
operation  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  and  the  necessity  of 
His  continual  agency  and  influence  to  advance  the 
holiness  and  comfort  of  those,  in  whose  hearts  he 
has  already  begun  a  work  of  grace,  are  not  only 
exploded  and  contradicted  by  many  who  profess  a 
regard  for  the  Bible,  and  by  some  who  have  sub- 
scribed to  the  articles  and  liturgy  of  our  established 
church,  but  they  who  avow  an  attachment  to  them 
are,  upon  that  account,  and  that  account  only, 
considered  as  hypocrites  or  visionaries,  knaves  or 
fools." 

Cowper's  memoir  of  his  brother  was  the  record 
of  an  instance  of  divine  grace  inferior,  if  at  all,  only 
to  the  wondrous  interposition  of  mercy  in  his  own 
case.  For  several  years  Cowper's  conversations 
with  his  brother  seemed  to  have  little  effect,  and 


cowper's    brother.  147 

his  narrative  of  his  own  cure  by  the  grace  of  Christ, 
which  he  gave  him  to  peruse,  seemed  to  be  regarded 
by  him  rather  as  a  proof  and  result  of  his  madness. 
But  when  his  illness  came,  Cowper  frequently  con- 
versed and  prayed  with  him,  and  at  length  he  had 
the  unspeakable  happiness  to  find  that  though  so 
long  blinded  by  prejudice,  yet  now  he  began  to  see, 
and  speedily  indeed,  became  like  a  little  child,  and 
in  the  reception  and  belief  of  those  same  truths 
which  he  had  before  rejected,  he  was  so  filled  with 
happiness  and  peace,  that  Cowper's  own  surprise 
and  joy  were  almost  greater  than  he  could  bear. 
On  the  borders  of  the  river  of  death  they  had  com- 
munion on  the  themes  of  heaven,  delightful,  satis- 
factory, ecstatic  ;  and  the  dear  object  of  Cowper's 
love,  anxiety,  and  faith,  passed  serenely  and  hap- 
pily away  in  humble  faith  and  prayer. 

Before  he  died,  he  told  Cowper  that  he  thought 
his  own  redemption  from  the  power  of  sin  and  de- 
liverance from  blindness  was  still  more  wonderful 
than  his  ;  for  his  prejudices  were  fast  confirmed 
and  riveted  against  the  truth,  and  he  had  all  his 
life  been  a  companion  with  those  who  trusted  in 
themselves  that  they  were  righteous,  and  despised 
the  doctrines  of  the  Cross.  Such  was  his  clergy- 
man in  his  early  days  ;  such  were  his  schoolmaster 
and  instructors  ;  such  the  most  admired  characters 
of  the  university  ;  and  such  was  he,  in  the  parish 
over  which  he  was  the  minister.     He  told  Cowper 


148  CONVERSION     OF 

that  he  was  just  beginning  to  be  a  deist,  and  had 
long  deaired  to  be  so  ;  and  he  owned,  what  he 
never  confessed  before,  that  his  office,  and  the  du- 
ties of  it,  were  a  wearisomeness  to  him  which  he 
could  not  bear.  "  Yet,"  said  he,  "  wretched  crea- 
ture and  beast  that  I  was,  I  was  esteemed  religious 
though  I  lived  without  God  in  the  world." 

"  Brother,  if  I  live,"  said  he  to  Cowper,  "  you 
and  I  shall  be  more  like  one  another  than  we  have 
been.  But  whether  I  live  or  live  not,  all  is  well, 
and  shall  be  so  ;  I  know  it  will ;  I  have  felt  that 
which  I  never  felt  before  ;  and  am  sure  that  God 
has  visited  me  with  this  sickness  to  teach  me  what 
I  was  too  proud  to  learn  in  health.  I  never  had 
satisfaction  till  now.  The  doctrines  I  had  been 
used  to,  referred  me  to  myself  for  the  foundation 
of  my  hopes,  and  there  I  could  find  nothing  to  rest 
upon.  The  sheet-anchor  of  the  soul  was  wanting. 
I  thought  you  wrong,  yet  wished  to  believe  as  you 
did.  You  suffered  more  than  I  have  done  before 
you  believed  these  truths  ;  but  our  sufferings, 
though  different  in  their  kind  and  measure,  were 
directed  to  the  same  end.  I  hope  God  has  taught 
me  that  which  He  teaches  none  but  His  own.  I 
hope  so.  These  things  were  foolishness  to  me  once, 
but  now  I  have  a  firm  foundation,  and  am  satisfied." 

Cowper's  memoir  of  the  wondrous  change  in  his 
brother,  and  of  the  great  mercy  of  God  in  his  sick- 
ness and   death,  is  so  simple,  so  impressive  and 


cowper's    brother.  14y 

beautiful,  that  we  wonder  it  lias  never  been  more 
widely  circulated  in  a  form  by  itself.  It  presents 
a  most  attractive  and  encouraging  picture  of  the 
grace  of  the  Kedeemer.  One  evening,  when  Cow- 
per  went  to  bid  him  good  night,  he  resumed  the 
account  of  his  feelings  in  the  following  words  : 
"  As  empty,  and  yet  full  :  as  having  nothing,  and 
yet  possessing  all  things  ;  I  see  the  rock  upon 
which  I  once  split,  and  I  see  the  rock  of  my  sal- 
vation  I  have  learned  that  in  a  moment 

which  I  could  not  have  learned  by  reading  many 
books  for  many  years.  I  have  often  studied  these 
points,  and  studied  them  with  great  attention,  but 
was  blinded  by  prejudice  ;  and  unless  He  who  alone 
is  worthy  to  unloose  the  seals,  had  opened  the  book 
to  me,  I  had  been  blinded  still.  Xow  they  appear 
so  plain,  that  though  I  am  convinced  no  comment 
could  have  ever  made  me  understand  them,  I  won- 
dered I  did  not  see  them  before." 

Another  evening  he  said,  "  I  see  now  who  was 

right  and  who  was  mistaken What  a  scene 

is  passing  before  me  !  Ideas  upon  these  subjects 
crowd  upon  me  faster  than  I  can  give  them  utter- 
ance. How  plain  do  many  texts  appear,  to  which, 
after  consulting  all  the  commentators,  I  could 
hardly  affix  a  meaning  ;  and  now  I  have  their 
true  meaning  without  any  comment  at  all.  There 
is  but  one  key  to  the  New  Testament,  but  one  In- 
terpreter.   I  can  not  describe  to  you,  nor  shall  ever 


150 


C  0  N  V  E  HSIOX      O  F 


be  able  to  describe,  what  I  felt  in  the  moment 
when  it  was  given  to  me.  May  I  make  a  good  use 
of  it  !  How  I  shudder  when  I  think  of  the  danger 
I  have  just  escaped  !  I  had  made  up  my  mind 
upon  these  subjects,  and  was  determined  to  hazard 
all  upon  the  justness  of  my  own  opinions." 

He  had  once  read  the  memoirs  of  Janeway  at 
Cowper's  desire,  and  he  now  told  Cowper  that  he 
had  laughed  at  it  in  his  own  mind,  and  accounted 
it  mere  madness  and  folly.  Cowper's  own  narra- 
tive of  lrimself  he  had  also  ascribed  to  the  unset- 
tled condition  of  his  intellect,  but  now  he  consid- 
ered his  own  redemption  from  such  ignorance, 
darkness  and  guilt  to  be  more  wonderful  than 
even  Cowper's.  One  afternoon,  wdiile  Cowper  was 
writing  by  the  fire-side,  he  thus  addressed  himself 
to  the  nurse,  who  sat  at  the  head  of  his  bed  : 
"  Nurse,  I  have  lived  three  and  thirty  years,  and  I 
will  tell  you  how  I  have  spent  them.  When  I  was 
a  boy,  they  taught  me  Latin  ;  and  because  I  was 
the  son  of  a  gentleman,  they  taught  me  Greek. 
These  I  learned  under  a  sort  of  private  tutor.  At 
the  age  of  fourteen,  or  thereabouts,  they  sent  me 
to  a  public  school,  where  I  learned  more  Latin 
and  Greek,  and  last  of  all  to  this  place,  where  I 
have  been  learning  more  Latin  and  Greek  still. 
Now  has  not  this  been  a  blessed  life,  and  much  to 
the  glory  of  God  ?"  He  was  much  distressed  at 
the  thought  of  having  been  for  ten  years  an  or- 


cowper's    b  hot  her.  151 

dained  minister,  but  a  blind  leader  of  the  blind  ; 
intrusted  with  the  care  of  souls,  yet  unable  to 
teach  them,  because  he  knew  not  the  Lord  him- 
self. He  desired  and  hoped  to  recover,  that  he 
might  yet  be  faithful,  and  be  an  instrument  of 
good  to  others.  He  said  to  his  brother,  "  Brother, 
I  was  going  to  say  I  was  born  in  such  a  year  ;  but 
I  correct  myself;  I  would  rather  say,  in  such  a 
year  I  came  into  the  world.  You  know  when  I 
was  born/' 

The  loss  of  a  brother  so  inexpressibly  dear,  at 
the  very  moment  when  he  had  begun  to  live,  and 
could  fully  sympathize  with  Cowper  in  all  his 
Christian  feelings,  would  have  been  an  overwhelm- 
ing sorrow,  but  for  the  greatness  of  the  grace  at- 
tending it.  The  deep  extraordinary  experience 
of  Divine  mercy  in  so  peaceful  and  happy  a  death, 
confirmed  Cowper  in  his  own  faith  and  hope,  and 
prevented  the  disastrous  effect  which  so  great  an 
affliction  might  otherwise  have  had  upon  his  men- 
tal frame  and  nervous  system.  He  continued  the 
performance  and  enjoyment  of  his  spiritual  duties, 
and  went  on  in  the  composition  of  the  "  Olney 
Hymns."  His  letters  had  long  breathed  a  sweet- 
spirit  of  piety  and  of  affectionate  solicitude  for 
others,  that  they  might  enjoy  the  same  heavenly 
hope  with  himself.  And  yet  at  this  very  time 
the  period  was  near  when  the  dreadful  malady 
which  had  carried  him  to  the  insane   asylum   at 


152  CONVERSION     OF 

St.  Albans,  would  again  seize  upon  his  being,  and 
mind  and  heart  would  be  involved  for  a  season  in 
the  blackness  of  darkness. 

And  here  we  note  that  if  it  had  not  been  for  the 
rich  and  sweet  experience  of  God's  loving-kindness 
in  these  years  of  light  and  peace,  that  in  Hunting- 
don and  Olney,  in  the  Christian  society  of  the  Un- 
wins  and  of  Newton,  had  passed  so  pleasantly,  the 
dread  incursion  of  his  madness  would  utterly  have 
overwhelmed  him,  and  he  must  have  passed  into 
absolute  incurable  despair.  But  during  those  years 
of  such  heavenly  Christian  enjoyment  and  frequently 
unclouded  light,  God  was  preparing  him  for  a  long 
and  dreary  conflict,  and  at  the  same  time  providing 
for  the  exercise  and  development  of  his  genius.  In 
those  years,  more  than  in  all  the  rest  of  his  life,  he 
gained  that  rich  spiritual  wisdom,  that  experi- 
mental knowledge  of  divine  truth,  that  acquaint- 
ance with  the  human  heart,  as  touched  by  divine 
grace,  that  affectionate  sympathy  with  and  knowl- 
edge of  the  woes  of  other  hearts,  and  that  habit  of 
submissive  acquiescence  with  the  will  of  God,  which 
prepared  him  to  write  such  a  poem  as  "  The  Task." 

Yet  Southey  dares  to  intimate — concerning  the 
Christian  experience  of  Cowper  in  these  delightful 
years,  and  especially  the  happiness  of  his  first  re- 
covery7— that  it  was  merely  the  illusion  of  his  mad- 
ness which  ought  to  have  been  discouraged.  He 
sets  it  down  (as  we  have  seen)  as  a  perilous  relig- 


cowfer's    brother.  153 

ious  enthusiasm,  and  rebukes  the  religious  friends 
of  Cowper  for  confirming  him  in  the  belief  that 
there  was  any  thing  supernatural  in  his  cure.  But 
certainly  it  would  have  been  strange  comfort,  and 
as  dangerous  as  strange,  to  tell  the  victim  of  relig- 
ious despair,  in  the  first  happiness  of  a  sight  of 
the  Redeemer,  and  the  first  enjoyment  of  a  serene 
hope,  that  the  happiness  and  the  hope  were  both  il- 
lusive, and  that  the  raptures  of  a  recovery,  if  deemed 
real,  would  only  be  productive  of  the  perilous  con- 
sequences of  religious  enthusiasm.  In  this  and 
some  other  passages,  Southey  goes  far  toward  the 
hazardous  intimation  that  Cowper's  religious  expe- 
rience, instead  of  being  the  work  of  the  Spirit  of 
God,  was  only  another  form  of  his  insanity,  or  the 
confounding  of  bodily  sensations  with  spiritual  im- 
pressions. 

Now,  if  Southey  could  study  such  a  manifesta- 
tion of  grace  and  truth  in  Christ  Jesus  as  that 
revealed  and  recorded  in  the  lives  of  such  men  as 
Newton  and  Cowper,  and  we  may  add,  the  Ger- 
man convert  Van  Lier  (whose  account  of  his  own 
Christian  experience  Cowper  translated  from  the 
Latin),  and  yet  deliberately  sneer  at  such  ex- 
perience, calling  it  the  "  Torrid  Zone,"  and  main- 
taining a  mind  and  heart  all  the  way  blinded  to 
the  interpositions  of  grace,  divine  and  supernatural, 
it  is  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  cases  of  un- 
belief and   darkness  ever   known.      If  Southey's 


154  CONVERSION     OF 

mind,  while  rational,  was  in  that  state  of  skepti- 
cism, his  madness  was  infinitely  worse  than  Cow- 
per's.  We  know  not  what  to  make  of  the  tone, 
half  devout,  half  sneering,  that  marks  a  portion 
of  the  life  of  the  Christian  poet.  But  Southey 
had  also  called  the  experience  of  Bunyan  himself, 
in  one  stage  of  it,  a  burning  and  feverish  en- 
thusiasm. He  seems  to  have  prided  himself  in 
the  assumption  of  a  much  better  understanding  of 
Cowper's  malady,  than  Newton  and  Mrs.  Unwin, 
Cowper' s  dearest  friends  and  guardians,  possessed  ; 
but  of  its  cure,  as  divine  and  supernatural,  he 
seems  to  have  believed  or  understood  little  or 
nothing.  He  appears  like  a  Rationalistic  theolo 
gian,  or  Xeologian,  writing  commentaries  on  an 
experimental  process  of  grace,  of  which  he  does 
not  credit  the  existence. 

Yet,  in  the  purest  and  serenest  light,  both  of 
reason  and  of  faith,  Cowper  himself  was  so  fully 
persuaded  that  his  recovery  at  St.  Alban's,  and  his 
happiness  afterward,  had  come  from  God  and  his 
grace  ;  he  hiew  this,  with  such  perfect  assurance, 
by  the  Spirit  of  God  bearing  witness  with  his  own 
spirit  ;  that  even  in  a  subsequent  access  of  his 
malady,  and  under  the  depths  of  what  seemed  the 
darkness  of  absolute  despair,  he  declared  that  it 
was  not  in  the  power  of  the  arch-enemy  himself 
to  deprive  him  of  that  conviction.  At  a  late 
period  of  his  life,  Cowper  made,  in  one  of  his  let- 


cowper's    brother.  155 

ters,  a  striking  remark,  which  he  little  knew  was 
to  become  applicable  (with  what  force  and  beauty!) 
to  some  of  his  own  biographers.  "  The  quarrel 
that  the  world  has/'  said  he,  "  with  evangelic  men 
and  doctrines,  they  would  have  with  a  host  of 
angels  in  the  human  form.  For  it  is  the  quarrel 
of  owls  with  sunshine  ;  of  ignorance  with  divine 
illumination." 


CHAPTER    XIII. 


RECURRENCE  OF  COWPER'S  MALADY. — ITS  CONTINUANCE  FOR  SEVEN 
YEARS. — HIS  GRADUAL  RETURN  TO  LITERARY  EFFORT,  AND  HIS 
ENJOYMENT    IN    THE    COMPOSITION   OF   HIS   POETRY. 


The  threatened  access  of  his  malady  came 
with  great  suddenness  in  the  month  of  January, 
1773.  A  dim  mysterious  presentiment  of  it  took 
possession  of  his  soul  in  one  of  his  solitary  field- 
walks  in  the  country,  and  he  returned  home  and 
composed  the  last  of  the  hymns  contrihuted  by 
him  to  the  Olney  Collection,  and  one  of  the  most 
exquisitely  beautiful  and  instructive  among  them 
all,  "  God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way,  His  wonders 
to  perform."  That  holy  and  admirable  composi- 
tion was  the  only  effort  of  his  genius  for  nearly 
seven  years,  during  which  period,  or  the  greater 
part  of  it,  he  was  in  the  profoundest  dejection  of 
spirits,  and  sometimes  in  a  state  amounting  to 
paroxyms  of  despair.  Some  years  afterward,  in  a 
letter  to  Lady  Hesketh,  he  described  his  condition 
under  that  attack,  as  follows  : 

"  In  the  year  1773  the  same  scene  that  was 


cowper's    malady.  157 

acted  at  St.  Alban's  opened  upon  me  again  at 
Olney,  only  covered  with  a  still  deeper  shade  of 
melancholy,  and  ordained  to  be  of  much  longer 
duration.  I  was  suddenly  reduced  from  my 
wonted  state  of  understanding  to  an  almost  child- 
ish imbecility.  I  did  not,  indeed,  lose  my  senses, 
but  I  lost  the  power  to  exercise  them.  I  could 
return  a  rational  answer,  even  to  a  difficult  ques- 
tion ;  but  a  question  was  necessary,  or  I  never 
spoke  at  all.  This  state  of  mind  was  accom- 
panied, as  I  suppose  it  to  be  in  most  instances 
of  the  kind,  with  misapprehensions  of  things  and 
persons  that  made  me  a  very  untractable  patient. 
I  believed  that  every  body  hated  me,  and  that 
Mrs.  Unwin  hated  me  worst  of  all ;  was  convinced 
that  all  my  food  was  poisoned,  together  with  ten 
thousand  meagrims  of  the  same  stamp.  Dr. 
Cotton  was  consulted.  He  replied  that  he  could 
do  no  more  for  me  than  might  be  done  at  Olney, 
but  recommended  particular  vigilance  lest  I  should 
attempt  my  life,  a  caution  for  which  there  was 
the  greatest  occasion.  At  the  same  time  that  I 
was  convinced  of  Mrs.  Unwinds  aversion  to  me,  I 
could  endure  no  other  companion.  The  whole 
management  of  me  consequently  devolved  upon 
her,  and  a  terrible  task  she  had.  She  performed 
it,  however,  with  a  cheerfulness  hardly  ever 
equaled  on  such  an  occasion,  and  I  have  often 
heard  her  say  that  if  she  ever  praised  God  in  her 


158 


cowper's    malady, 


life,  it  was  when  she  found  that  she  was  to  have 
all  the  labor." 

This  second  attack  of  his  malady,  though  sud- 
den and  severe,  was  lighter  than  the  first ;  but  it 
continued  much  longer,  and  only  by  slow  degrees 
did  his  mind  regain  its  wonted  strength  and  play- 
fulness. It  is  not  till  near  1780  that  his  letters 
become  frequent  and  full,  and  from  that  time  ever 
after,  though  often  exquisitely  sportive  and  hu- 
morous, there  was  a  tone  of  pensiveness,  and  often 
of  the  deepest  melancholy  in  them  ;  nor  did  he 
ever  again  in  life  enjoy,  at  any  interval,  the  serene 
unclouded  blissfulness  of  his  first  religious  ex- 
perience, but  his  path  was  always  more  or  less  in 
the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death.  When  he 
began  to  recover,  it  was  by  gradual  amusement 
and  occupation,  such  as  playing  with  his  tame 
hares,  gardening,  building  houses  for  his  plants, 
and  drawing,  in  which  things  he  engaged  as  with 
the  affectionate  and  playful  spirit  of  a  child  ;  it 
was  thus  only  that  his  mind  resumed  its  active 
habits,  and  at  length  could  come  to  the  effort  of 
literary  composition.  He  wrote  verses  now  and 
then  for  amusement,  but  compared  his  mind,  in 
one  of  his  letters  to  Mr.  Newton,  to  a  board  under 
the  plane  of  the  carpenter,  the  shavings  being  his 
uppermost  thoughts,  nor  likely  to  be  ever  any  thing 
but  shavings,  though  planed  as  thin  as  a  wafer. 
"  I  can  not  bear  much  thinking,"  said  he.      "  The 


IMPRESSIVE      REMARK.  159 

meshes  of  that  fine  net-work,  the  brain,  are  com- 
posed of  such  mere  spinner's  threads  in  me,  that 
when  a  long  thought  finds  its  way  into  them,  it 
buzzes,  and  twangs,  and  bustles  about  at  such  a 
rate,  as  seems  to  threaten  the  whole  contexture." 

During  this  picture  of  gloom  and  gradual  con- 
valescence, Mr.  Newton,  Mrs.  Unwin,  and  his  play- 
ful tame  hares,  were  for  years  his  only  companions. 
In  1780,  when  his  mind  had  fully  recovered  its 
strength,  and  the  dejection  of  his  spirits  was  in 
some  degree  lightened,  Mr.  Newton  was  called 
from  Olney  to  a  parish  in  London  ;  and  thence- 
forward their  intercourse  was  continued  in  an 
affectionate  and  deeply,  often  intensely  and  pain- 
fully interesting  correspondence  ;  for  to  Newton 
Cowper  opened  his  heart  more  freely  and  fully,  in 
regard  to  his  spiritual  distress  and  gloom,  than  to 
any  other  human  being.  Nevertheless,  some  of 
the  most  exquisitely  playful  and  humorous  letters 
he  ever  wrote  were  written  to  Newton,  though 
ordinarily,  with  him,  the  wonted  themes  of  con- 
versation would  very  naturally  be  of  a  graver  cast 
than  with  many  of  his  other  correspondents.  In 
one  of  his  earliest  letters  to  Newton  he  makes  the 
following  most  impressive  remark  in  regard  to  his 
own  experience,  as  teaching  him  the  vanity  of 
earthly  pursuits  and  pleasures  :  "If  every  human 
being  upon  earth  could  think  for  one  quarter  of  an 
hour  as  I  have  done  for  many  years,  there  might, 


160  THE      CHRISTIAN      SPIRIT. 

perhaps,  be  many  miserable  men  among  them,  but 
not  an  una  wakened  one  would  be  found  from  the 
arctic  to  the  antarctic  circle."  This  is  exceed- 
ingly striking.  It  is  like  opening  a  door  in  the 
side  of  a  dark  mountain,  where  secret  and  awful 
procedures  of  nature  are  going  on,  and  bidding  you 
look  in. 

He  continues,  describing  the  chastened  Chris- 
tian spirit  in  which  his  sorrows  had  taught  him  to 
pursue  the  harmless  occupations  and  amusements 
with  which  he  was  beguiling  his  mind  into  em- 
ployment, "  I  could  spend  whole  days  and  moon- 
light nights  in  feeding  upon  a  lovely  ])rospect.  My 
eyes  drink  the  rivers  as  they  flow.  I  delight  in 
baubles,  and  know  them  to  be  such ;  for,  viewed 
without  a  reference  to  their  Author,  what  is  the 
earth,  what  are  the  planets,  what  is  the  sun  itself, 
but  a  bauble  ?  Better  for  a  man  never  to  have 
seen  them,  or  to  see  them  with  the  eyes  of  a  brute, 
stupid  and  unconscious  of  what  he  beholds,  than 
not  to  be  able  to  say,  l  The  Maker  of  all  these  won- 
ders is  my  friend/  The  eyes  of  many  have  never 
been  opened  to  see  that  they  are  trirless  mine  have 
been,  and  will  be  till  they  are  closed  forever.  They 
think  a  fine  estate,  a  large  conservatory  hot-house, 
rich  as  a  West  Indian  garden,  things  of  conse- 
quence, visit  them  with  pleasure,  and  muse  upon 
them  with  ten  times  more.  I  am  pleased  with  a 
frame  of  four  lights,  doubtful  whether    the   few 


cowper's    playthings.  161 

pines  it  contains  will  ever  be  worth  a  farthing  ; 
amuse  myself  with  a  green-house,  which  Lord 
Bute's  gardener  could  take  upon  his  back  and 
walk  away  with  it ;  and  when  I  have  paid  it  the 
accustomed  visit,  and  watered  it,  and  given  it  air, 
I  say  to  myself — this  is  not  mine  ;  'tis  a  plaything 
lent  me  for  the  present ;  I  must  leave  it  soon." 

In  another  letter  to  Mr.  Unwin,  at  the  same 
time,  Cowper  speaks  of  the  delight  with  which  just 
then  he  was  absorbed  in  the  passion  for  landscape- 
drawings  ;  and  he  describes  a  characteristic  of  his 
mind  and  heart,  intimately  connected,  no  doubt, 
with  his  success  as  a  poet.  "  So  long  as  I  am 
pleased  with  an  employment,"  says  he,  "I  am  ca- 
pable of  unwearied  application,  because  my  feelings 
are  all  of  the  intense  kind  ;  I  never  received  a  little 
pleasure  from  any  thing  in  my  life  ;  if  I  am  de- 
lighted, it  is  in  the  extreme."  Keeping  this  char- 
acteristic in  view,  it  is  impossible  not  to  reflect, 
with  great  satisfaction,  on  the  pleasure  Cowper 
must  have  enjoyed  even  in  the  midst  of  saddest 
dejection,  almost  descending  to  despair,  in  the 
composition  of  his  poetry.  We  are  reminded  of 
the  experience  of  Bunyan,  which  in  many  points 
had  so  much  that  was  similar  to  Cowper's.  For 
some  years  Bunyan  was  under  such  a  load  of  the 
sense  of  guilt  and  condemnation,  that  he  describes 
himself  almost  as  one  coming  from  hell  into  the 
pulpit  ;  he  says  he  went  in  chains  to  preach  to  men 


162  cowpeh's    playthings. 

in  chains  ;  but  it  was  marvelous  that  almost  al- 
ways, while  this  experience  lasted,  the  burden  was 
taken  off  the  moment  he  began  to  speak,  and  he 
could  preach  with  a  divine  freedom  and  enjoyment, 
though  as  soon  as  he  got  through,  it  all  came  back 
again,  even  at  the  pulpit  stairs. 

Something  such  was  Cowper's  experience  in  the 
composition  of  his  poems.  The  exercise  of  compo- 
sition, while  he  was  engaged  in  it,  carried  him 
above  the  gloom  and  dejection  of  his  soul,  into 
clear  skies.  It  was  like  climbing  up  a  mountain 
out  of  a  sea  of  mist,  into  a  serene  and  cloudless 
atmosphere,  to  describe  and  enjoy  the  glory,  and 
then  return  again.  Cowper  often  declared  that 
the  same  dejection  of  soul  which  would  have  kept 
another  man  from  ever  becoming  a  poet,  made  him 
one.  Moreover,  it  is  clear  that  during  these  appa- 
rently useless  and  hopeless  years,  in  which  by  turns 
he  was  playing  the  gardener,  carpenter,  hare-tamer, 
and  twenty  other  things,  in  almost  childlike  amuse- 
ment, he  was  gathering  materials  from  nature,  as 
well  as  unconscious  quiet  meditation,  for  his  future 
works. 

Meantime,  his  letters  were  often  little  poems, 
sometimes  inimitably  and  exquisitely  droll ;  and 
in  the  very  midst  of  them,  as  often  as  a  thought 
seized  him  for  the  purpose,  or  a  subject  fit  for 
rhyme,  he  would  throw  it  at  once  into  verse,  and 
thus  produced  some  of  the  most  beautiful  of  his 


MINOR     POEMS.  16*3 

minor  pieces.  "  I  am  glad/'  said  he,  in  reference 
to  such  efforts,  "when  I  can  find  a  subject  to  work 
upon  ; — a  lapidary,  I  suppose,  accounts  it  a  labor- 
ious part  of  his  business  to  rub  away  the  roughness 
of  the  stone  ;  but  it  is  my  amusement ;  and  if, 
after  all  the  polishing  I  can  give  it,  it  discovers 
some  little  lustre,  I  think  myself  well  rewarded  for 
my  pains."  These  were  what  he  called  the  shav- 
ings of  his  mind  ;  and  sometimes,  when  the  humor 
took  him,  he  would  in  the  midst  of  a  letter  open 
his  pocket-book,  and  find  something  to  transcribe 
that  had  been  sketched  down,  but  not  finished,  at  a 
previous  period.  "  The  Nightingale  and  Glow- 
worm," "The  Goldfinch,"  "The  Kaven,"  "The 
Pine-apple  and  the  Bee,"  "  The  Case  between  Eyes 
and  Nose,"  "  The  Doves,"  and  a  great  many  other 
pieces  were  composed  in  this  playful,  delightful, 
spontaneous  way ;  and  after  ministering  to  his 
own  amusement,  were  sent  off  for  the  gratification 
of  others. 

Sometimes  he  would  sit  down  and  scribble  a  let- 
ter to  Newton  in  the  form  of  prose,  but  in  the  real- 
ity of  rhyme,  apparently  without  the  least  effort, 
and  from  the  mere  spontaneous  overflow  of  a  play- 
ful mind  in  the  habit  of  versification.  Southey 
has  somewhere  most  unwarrantably  intimated  that 
Cowper,  in  his  correspondence  with  Newton,  pur- 
sued it  as  a  task,  and  like  a  man  going  to  the  con- 
fessional.    The  assertion  is  quite  unfounded,  for 


164 


MINOR      POEMS 


some  of  the  most  sportive  in  the  whole  collection 
of  his  epistles  are  those  addressed  to  this  dear 
friend  and  to  Mrs.  Newton.  And  although  his 
friendship  with  Mr.  Unwin  was  formed  some  years 
the  earliest,  yet  neither  Mr.  Unwin,  nor  any  other 
friend  on  earth,  ever  knew  so  much  of  Cowper' s 
spiritual  conflicts  and  distresses  as  Newton,  nor 
did  ever  any  other  being  sympathize  so  deeply  and 
intelligently  with  him,  in  the  endurance  of  such 
tremendous  gloom.  And  Newton's  letters  to  Cow- 
per  must  ha\&e  been  full  of  affectionate  encourage- 
ment, instruction,  and  support,  and  because  mainly 
occupied  with  the  subject  of  religion,  therefore  the 
more  acceptable,  although  Southey  complains  that 
Newton  sermonized  in  his  epistles,  and  that  there- 
fore "  they  were  not  such  as  Cowper  could  have 
had  any  pleasure  in  receiving."  If  the  sermonizing 
was  such  as  is  contained  in  the  "  Cardiphonia," 
Cowper  would  have  delighted  in  it,  and  beyond 
question  was  greatly  benefited  and  comforted.  But 
none  of  the  letters  which  Cowper  ever  received 
from  any  of  his  correspondents  could  be  compared 
with  his  own  for  the  perfection  of  all  the  graces 
that  combine  to  render  them  instructive  and 
charming.  No  man  that  ever  wrote  English  could 
write  letters  so  beautifully  as  Cowper. 

One  of  his  biographers  has  said,  though  along 
with  much  praise  of  the  superior  excellence  of  Cow- 
per's letters  above  all  others,  that  they  are  not  dis- 


MINOR     POEMS.  165 

tinguished  for  superiority  of  thought  or  diction  ; — 
a  most  unfortunate  criticism,  since  they  are  distin- 
guished for  these  very  qualities,  above  all  other 
epistolary  collections  in  the  language.  The  dic- 
tion with  its  ornaments  is  as  pure  and  sweet,  as 
artless  and  simple,  as  natural  and  idiomatic  as  a 
field  of  fresh  grass  intermingled  with  strawberry 
blossoms  or  set  with  daisies,  the  most  unassuming 
and  yet  the  loveliest  of  flowers  for  such  a  combi- 
nation. And  the  thought  is  often  so  profound, 
that  if  it  were  not  for  the  charming  simplicity  and 
artlessness  of  the  style  and  language,  the  mind 
would  be  arrested  in  admiration  of  its  originality 
and  power.  The  reader  is  absolutely  deceived  by 
that  simplicity  into  the  impression  that  such 
thought  is  as  easy  as  the  language ;  and,  indeed, 
such  a  style  both  of  thought  and  language  marks 
the  highest  genius,  and  while  it  seems  easy,  is 
proved  difficult  by  its  veiy  rareness  in  English  lit- 
erature. The  study  of  Cowper's  prose  as  well  as 
his  poetry  would  be  one  of  the  best  disciplinary 
processes  for  the  acquisition  of  a  habit  of  ease  and 
purity,  and  at  the  same  time  strength  and  point, 
in  the  use  of  the  English  tongue. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 


COMPOSITION  OF  THE  "  PROGRESS  OF  ERROR,  '  "  TABLE  TALK,"  "  RE- 
TIREMENT,*' AND  OTIIER  PIECES. — PUBLICATION  OF  HIS  FIRST 
VOLUME. — SECRET  OF  ITS  ATTRACTIVENESS  OF  THOUGHT  AND 
STYLE. — BEAUTY   OF   COWPER'S   LETTERS. 


It  was  thus  that  by  degrees,  step  after  step, 
Cowper  was  led  to  the  composition  of  the  poem 
entitled  "  The  Progress  of  Error.''  which  he  an- 
nounced in  a  letter  to  Newton,  with  the  following 
remarks,  in  the  month  of  December :  "  At  this 
season  of  the  year,  and  in  this  gloomy  uncomfort- 
able climate,  it  is  no  easy  matter  for  the  owner  of 
a  mind  like  mine  to  divert  it  from  sad  subjects, 
and  fix  it  upon  such  as  may  administer  to  its 
amusement.  Poetry,  above  all  things,  is  useful  to 
me  in  this  respect.  While  I  am  held  in  pursuit 
of  pretty  images,  or  a  pretty  way  of  expressing 
them,  I  forget  every  thing  that  is  irksome,  and, 
like  a  boy  that  plays  truant,  determine  to  avail 
myself  of  the  present  opportunity  to  be  amused, 
and  to  put  by  the  disagreeable  recollection  that  I 
must,  after  all,  go  home  and  be  whipped  again." 


TABLE      TALK.  167 

In  this  way  it  was  that  he  finished  his  "  Table 
Talk,"  which  in  1781  he  sent  to  Mr.  Newton,  with 
a  characteristic  letter,  in  which  he  described  his 
difficult  dilemma  between  weeping  and  laughing, 
and  said  he  was  merry  to  decoy  people  into  his 
company,  and  grave  that  they  might  be  the  better 
for  it.  But  he  was  inclined  to  suspect  that  if  his 
Muse  were  to  go  forth  clad  in  Quaker  color,  with- 
out a  bit  of  ribbon  to  enliven  her  appearance,  she 
might  walk  from  one  end  of  London  to  the  other, 
as  little  noticed  as  if  she  were  one  of  the  sisterhood 
indeed.  A  few  days  afterward  he  announced  to 
Newton  the  poem  of  "  Expostulation ;"  and  a 
week  or  two  after  that,  asked  his  advice  and  help 
by  way  of  a  preface,  in  the  publication  of  a  vol- 
ume. When  he  first  made  the  collection  of  pieces 
of  which  it  was  composed,  he  had  not  the  smallest 
expectation  of  publishing. 

He  told  his  friend  Hill  that  the  volume  was 
principally  produced  in  the  winter,  when  he  could 
not  be  employed  out  of  doors.  "  When  I  can  find 
no  other  occupation,"  said  he,  "  I  think  ;  and  when 
I  think,  I  am  very  apt  to  do  it  in  rhyme.  Hence 
it  comes  to  pass  that  the  season  of  the  year  which 
generally  pinches  off  the  flowers  of  poetry,  unfolds 
mine,  such  as  they  are,  and  crowns  me  with  a  win- 
ter garland.  In  this  respect,  therefore,  I  and  my 
cotemporary  bards  are  by  no  means  upon  a  par. 
They  write  when  the  delightful  influences  of  fine 


168  C  0  WPll'fl      FIRS  T      V  OLUME. 

weather,  line  prospects,  and  a  brisk  motion  of  the 
animal  spirits  make  poetry  almost  the  language  of 
nature  ;  and  I,  when  icicles  depend  from  all  the 
leaves  of  the  Parnassian  laurel,  and  when  a  reason- 
able man  would  as  little  expect  to  succeed  in  verse 
as  to  hear  a  black-bird  whistle." 

The  volume,  thus  prepared,  was  published  in 
1782,  when  Cowper  was  fifty  years  of  age.  It  was 
the  first-fruits  of  his  sorrows,  his  piety,  his  genius, 
of  which  his  compositions  among  the  "  Olney 
Hymns/'  not  then  given  to  the  public,  had  been 
the  earnest  and  the  promise.  It  consisted  of  eight 
separate  poems,  the  first  of  which  was  "  Table 
Talk/7  and  the  last  "  Eetirement  ;"  all  of  a  char- 
acter so  harmonious,  and  in  the  same  meter, 
melody,  and  style,  that  the  collection  possessed  a 
unity  almost  as  perfect  as  "  The  Task  "  This  ad- 
mirable volume  was  the  opening  of  a  new  and 
original  vein  in  English  poetical  literature  ;  but 
with  all  its  excellences,  though  it  found  many 
admirers,  was  by  no  means  immediately  popular. 
The  volume  grew  by  delay  of  publication,  no  small 
portion  of  it  having  been  composed  and  added 
while  the  first  part  was  in  the  press.  This  was  the 
case  with  the  poems  of  "  Hope/'  "  Conversation," 
and  the  whole  of  the  last  piece,  entitled  "  Retire- 
ment." The  whole  of  the  volume  was  "  finished, 
polished,  touched,  and  retouched,  with  the  utmost 
care."     This  is  Cowper's  own  declaration  respecting 


newton's    preface.  169 

it.  He  occupied  more  time  and  spent  more  labor 
on  the  revisal  of  his  compositions  than  on  the  first 
creation  of  them. 

The  volume  was  to  have  been  published  with  a 
preface  by  Newton,  which  had  been  prepared  at 
Cowper's  request,  and  was  sent  to  Johnson,  Cow- 
per's  publisher.  It  always  appears  now,  printed 
with  the  poems,  as  published  February  18,  1782, 
and  signed  John  Newton.  Yet,  so  low  was  the 
state  of  religion  in  England  at  that  time,  so  fash- 
ionable was  it,  even  in  the  English  Church,  to  hate, 
revile,  and  despise  experimental  piety  as  Method- 
ism, and  so  fearful  was  the  publisher  of  injuring 
the  sale  of  the  volume,  that  in  compliance  with  his 
wishes  the  affectionate,  judicious,  and  admirable 
preface  by  Cowper's  dear  and  valued  friend  was 
suppressed,  and  the  volume  was  published  without 
it.  Cowper  left  the  whole  thing  to  be  settled  be- 
tween Johnson  and  Newton  ;  but  it  would  have 
been  a  wiser  and  more  dignified  course  if  he  had 
insisted  on  the  preface  appearing  with  the  book. 
It  was  thought  too  pious,  and  he  suffered  Johnson, 
the  publisher,  to  have  his  own  way,  though  he 
wrote  Newton  that  the  times  must  have  altered 
for  the  worse,  and  the  world  must  have  grown 
even  more  foolish  and  careless  than  it  was  when  he 
had  the  honor  of  knowing  it,  if  such  a  preface  as 
his  friend's  could  spoil  the  market  of  the  volume. 
It  was  in  this  preface  that  Newton  spoke  of  Cow- 


170  newton's    preface. 

per  as  the  friend  whose  presence  at  Olney  was 
"  one  of  the  principal  blessings  of  his  life  ;  a  friend 
and  counselor  in  whose  company  for  almost  seven 
years,  though  they  were  seldom  seven  successive 
waking  hours  separated,  he  always  found  new 
pleasure." 

On  the  occasion  of  composing  this  volume,  Cow- 
per  told  his  friend  Mr.  Unwin  that  there  were 
times  when  he  was  no  more  a  poet  than  a  mathe- 
matician, and  when  such  a  season  occurred,  he  al- 
ways thought  it  better  to  give  up  the  point  than 
to  labor  in  vain.  Sometimes  he  could  write  fifty 
lines  a  day,  sometimes  not  five.  After  he  had  dis- 
continued the  practice  of  verse-making  for  some 
weeks,  he  felt  quite  incapable  of  resuming  it,  and 
wondered  at  it,  as  one  of  the  most  extraordinary 
incidents  of  his  life,  that  he  should  have  composed 
a  volume.  In  better  days,  or  what  might  have 
seemed  better,  he  would  not  have  dared  to  commit 
his  name  and  reputation  to  the  hazard  of  public 
opinion.  But  the  discipline  through  which  God 
had  caused  him  to  pass,  made,  what  once  he  re- 
garded as  important  to  appear  trivial,  and  he 
found  he  could  go  forward  in  his  work  unfettered 
by  fear,  and  under  no  restraint  from  his  natural 
diffidence. 

He  told  Mr.  Unwin  that  what  he  reckoned 
among  his  principal  advantages  as  a  writer  of 
verse  was  this,  that  up  to  that  time,  in  1781,  he 


SECRET      OF      ORIGINALITY.  171 

had  not  read  a  single  English  poem  for  thirteen 
years,  and  but  one  for  twenty.  But  this  was  not 
the  cause  of  his  originality,  which  is  quite  another 
quality  than  the  bare  absence  of  imitation  ;  and 
he  was  in  some  respects  the  most  truly  original 
poet  that  had  appeared  for  a  century.  When  his 
first  volume  was  about  to  be  published,  he  was  not 
a  little  fearful  of  the  opinion  of  Dr.  Johnson,  and 
he  told  Newton  that  one  of  Johnson's  pointed  sar- 
casms, if  he  should  happen  to  be  displeased,  would 
soon  find  its  way  into  all  companies,  and  spoil  the 
sale.  This  is  an  interesting  illustration  of  the 
despotic  power  over  literary  opinion  so  long  wielded 
by  Johnson,  and  carried  much  wider  by  his  great 
conversational  powers  than  by  his  written  criti- 
cisms. 

The  secret  of  Cowper's  attractiveness  of  thought 
and  style,  whatever  he  handled,  and  of  the  sweet 
air  of  nature  breathing  in  every  page,  but  especially 
in  his  rural  descriptions,  is  disclosed  in  his  letters. 
Whatever  he  did,  he  did  with  his  whole  heart. 
When  he  told  his  beloved  cousin,  Lady  Hesketh, 
that  he  never  received  a  little  pleasure  from  any 
thing,  he  might  have  added,  that  things  which  to 
others  might  have  seemed  little,  and  would  have 
occasioned  no  thought  at  all,  were  to  him  the  min- 
isters sometimes  of  profound  and  pensive  thought, 
sometimes  of  exquisite  pleasure.  The  charm  of 
unaffected  religious  sentiment  and  feeling,  diffused 


172  SECRET      OF     ORIGINALITY. 

as  an  atmosphere  belonging  to  the  scenery,  and 
the  scenery  to  it,  as  idiomatic  and  native  as  the 
air  of  an  Italian  sunset  to  the  bay  of  Naples,  was 
a  new  thing  in  poetry.  Here  was  Biblical  truth, 
Puritan  truth,  as  plain  and  pungent  as  any  of 
Latimer's  sermons,  and  all  the  feeling  of  a  poet's 
heart,  and  all  the  reality  and  fire  of  a  poet's  genius 
along  with  it  ;  unpalatable  and  most  condemning 
satire,  and  yet  the  earnestness,  the  humor,  and  the 
love  that  made  it  winning  ;  and  in  all  the  pictures 
of  rural  life  and  landscape,  the  same  elements,  the 
sweet  religious  sensibility,  the  quick  and  interest- 
ing discernment,  the  quiet  truth  to  nature,  and  a 
heart  full  of  the  enjoyment  of  it.  Nothing  was 
admitted  from  art  or  imitation,  nothing  added  at 
second  hand,  nothing  but  what  he  himself  drew 
from  reality. 

We  find  the  poet  in  one  of  his  letters  persuading 
his  friend  Unwin  to  take  more  air  and  exercise  in 
order  to  prevent  dejection  and  melancholy,  and 
telling  him  that  easy-chairs  and  sedentary  habits 
were  no  friends  to  cheerfulness.  If  his  friend  ob- 
jected that  his  exercise  would  do  him  no  good 
without  an  object,  he  answered,  "  Is  not  a  new 
prospect,  which  in  most  countries  is  gained  at  the 
end  of  every  mile,  an  object  ?  Every  thing  I  see 
in  the  fields  is  to  me  an  object ;  and  I  can  look  at 
the  same  rivulet,  or  at  a  handsome  tree,  every  day 
of  my  life  with  new  pleasure.     This,  indeed,  is 


SECRET     OF      ORIGINALITY.  173 

partly  the  effect  of  a  natural  taste  for  rural  beauty, 
and  partly  the  effect  of  habit,  for  I  never  in  all  my 
life  have  let  slip  the  opportunity  of  breathing  fresh 
air,  and  conversing  with  nature,  when  I  could  fairly 
catch  it.  I  earnestly  recommend  a  cultivation  of 
the  same  taste  to  you." 

This  delightful  trait  in  the  life  and  power  of 
Cowper's  character  and  genius  reminds  us  forc- 
ibly of  Coleridge's  remarks  in  the  fifteenth  Essay 
in  the  "  Friend,"  which  -he  might  himself  have 
written  immediately  after  the  perusal  of  Cowper's 
letter.  "  To  find  no  contradiction  in  the  union  of 
old  and  new,  to  contemplate  the  Ancient  of  Days 
with  feelings  as  fresh  as  if  they  then  sprang  forth 
at  his  own  fiat — this  characterizes  the  minds 
that  feel  the  riddle  of  the  world,  and  may  help  to 
unravel  it.  To  carry  on  the  feelings  of  childhood 
into  the  powers  of  manhood,  to  combine  the 
child's  sense  of  wonder  and  novelty  with  the  ap- 
pearances which  every  day  for  perhaps  forty  years 
has  rendered  familiar : 

With  sun  and  moon  and  stars  throughout  the  year, 
And  man  and  woman ; — 

this  is  the  character  and  privilege  of  genius,  and 
one  of  the  marks  which  distinguish  genius  from 
talent.  And  so  to  represent  familiar  objects  as  to 
awaken  the  minds  of  others  to  a  like  freshness 
of  sensation  concerning  them — this  is  the  prime 


174  LORD     THURLOW, 

merit  of  genius,  and  its  most  unequivocal  mode 
of  manifestation." 

Cowper  told  Ins  friend  that  he  never  knew,  be- 
fore he  mounted  his  Parnassian  steed,  at  what 
rate  he  might  choose  to  travel.  If  he  was  indis- 
posed to  haste,  it  was  impossible  to  accelerate  his 
pace ;  if  otherwise,  equally  impossible  to  stop 
him.  This  he  said,  even  while  composing  the 
"  Tirocinium  ;"  and  he  added,  "  The  critics  will 
never  know  that  four  lines  of  it  were  composed 
while  I  had  an  ounce  and  a  half  of  ipecacuanha 
upon  my  stomach,  and  a  wooden  vessel  called  a 
pail  between  my  knees  ;  and  that  in  the  very 
article — in  short,  that  I  was  delivered  of  the  emetic 
and  the  verses  in  the  same  moment."  He  thought 
that  was  a  proof  of  singular  industry,  and  though 
it  was  not  uncommon  for  poets  to  obtain  great 
help  from  cathartics  in  the  article  of  brilliancy,  it 
was  a  new  and  original  discovery  to  find  that  an 
emetic  was  a  sovereign  remedy  for  costiveness,  and 
would  be  sure  to  produce  a  fluent  and  easy  versifi- 
cation. 

When  Cowper's  first  volume  was  published,  he 
sent  it  to  his  old  school-fellows  Colman  and  Lord 
Chancellor  Thurlow.  They  neither  of  them  paid 
the  slightest  attention  either  to  the  poem  or  its 
author,  not  having  the  common  civility  even  to 
acknowledge  the  gift.  This  neglect  was  more 
than  made  up  to  Cowper,  in  the  letter  of  sincere  and 


LORD      THURLOW.  175 

characteristic  applause  which  he  received  from  Dr. 
Franklin  ;  but  for  a  season  the  rudeness  of  his  old 
friends  was  the  source  of  some  justly  indignant 
feelings  in  his  bosom.  From  the  Lord  Chancellor 
the  unkindness  was  the  greater,  because  Cowper 
addressed  to  him,  along  with  the  volume,  a  letter 
referring  to  their  early  and  cordial  friendship,  and 
entreating  his  lordship's  pardon  for  the  poem  of 
which  he  was  the  subject.  "  The  best  excuse  I 
can  make,"  said  Cowper,  "  is,  that  it  flowed  almost 
spontaneously  from  the  affectionate  remembrance 
of  a  connection  that  did  me  so  much  honor." 
Thurlow  returned  not  the  least  acknowledgment 
or  notice  of  this  mark  of  continued  regard  on  the 
part  of  a  long  intimate  friend,  and  Cowper  ex- 
pressed his  indignation  in  a  poem  sent  to  his  dear 
friend  Mr.  Unwin  : 

Farewell,  false  hearts !    whose  best  affections  fail, 
Like  shallow  brooks,  which  summer  suns  exhale ! 

"  He  has  great  abilities,"  said  Cowper  in  a  letter 
to  Mr.  Unwin,  "  but  no  religion."  And  in  a  letter 
in  regard  to  the  volume  of  poetry,  and  the  re- 
ligious instruction  it  was  intended  to  convey :  "  I 
have  sent  him  the  truth,  and  the  truth  which  I 
know  he  is  ignorant  of."  When  this  letter  was 
published  by  Hayley,  this  pointed  declaration, 
which  might  possibly  have  awakened  some  salu- 
tary anxiety,  was  omitted  for  fear  of  giving  offense, 


176  LORD     THURLOW. 

because  Thurlow  was  still  living  !  The  descrip- 
tion of  character  in  the  poem  was  also  suppressed, 
but  the  following  beautiful  conclusion  was  printed, 
containing  a  picture,  drawn  from  life,  of  Cowper's 
happiness  in  the  treasures  of  friendship  God  had 
given  him  : 


Votaries  of  business  and  of  pleasure  prove 
Faithless  alike  in  friendship  and  in  love  ; 
Retired  from  all  the  circles  of  the  gay, 
And  all  the  crowds  that  bustle  life  away, 
To  scenes  where  competition,  envy,  strife, 
Beget  no  thunder-clouds  to  trouble  life. 
Let  me  the  charge  of  some  good  angel  find, 
One  who  has  known  and  has  escaped  mankind, 
Polite,  yet  virtuous,  who  has  brought  away 
The  manners,  not  the  morals,  of  the  day. 
With  him,  perhaps  with  her  (for  men  have  known 
No  firmer  friendships  than  the  fair  have  shown),. 
Let  me  enjoy,  in  some  unthought  of  spot, 
All  former  friends  forgiven  and  forgot, 
Down  to  the  close  of  life's  fast  fading  scene, 
Union  of  hearts,  without  a  flaw  between ; 
'Tis  grace,  'tis  bounty,  and  it  calls  for  praise, 
If  God  give  health,  that  sunshine  of  our  days; 
And  if  He  add,  a  blessing  shared  by  few. 
Content  of  heart,  more  praises  still  are  due. 
But  if  He  grant  a  friend,  that  boon  possesst 
Indeed  is  treasure,  and  crowns  all  the  rest. 
And  giving  one  whose  heart  is  in  the  skies. 
Born  from  above,  and  made  divinely  wise, 
He  gives  what  bankrupt  Nature  never  can, 
Whose  noblest  coin  is  light  and  brittle  man, 
Gold,  purer  far  than  Ophir  ever  knew, 
A  soul,  an  image  of  Himself,  and  therefore  true. 


CHAPTER    XV. 

POWER  OF  COWPER'S  SATIRE. — ITS  CHRISTIAN  CHARACTER  AND 
PURPOSE. — POWER  AND  BEAUTY  OF  THOUGHT  IN  THE  POEM  OF 
"TRUTH." — SUBLIMITY  OF  "THE  EXPOSTULATION." — COWPER'S 
ABHORRENCE   OF   SLAVERY. 

For  every  one  of  the  subjects  in  this  volume, 
Cowper  had  been  richly  prepared  both  by  his  spir- 
itual discipline  and  his  education  in  the  schools  and 
in  society.  The  power  of  vigorous  and  caustic  sat- 
ire was  never  more  admirably  combined  with  af- 
fectionate feeling,  an  enlarged  and  comprehensive 
sympathy,  generous  and  kindly  wit  and  humor,  a 
fervent  love  of  the  truth,  and  hatred  of  all  hypoc- 
risy. With  his  native  amiable  disposition  and 
unaffected  Christian  charity,  it  was  impossible  for 
Cowper  to  be  bitter  against  any  thing  but  mean- 
ness, malignity,  profane  bigotiy,  and  proud  and 
fashionable  sin.  One  would  hardly  have  expected 
from  this  retired  and  shy  observer,  in  that  deep 
seclusion  from  which  he  looked  forth  through  the 
loop-holes  of  his  retreat,  upon  the  Babel  of  this 
world,  so  keen  a  discernment  and  so  graphic  and 

faithful  a  portraiture  of  its  manners  and  its  life,  its 
8* 


178  cowper's    bat  ire. 

follies  and  its  woes.  The  keenness  of  Cowper's 
satire  is  not  bitterness,  not  acrimony,  but  truth, 
and  the  just  severity  of  Christian  truth  and  love 
against  obstinate  error,  iniquity,  pretension  and 
pride.  Here  is  the  burning  and  unsparing  pun- 
gency of  Juvenal,  along  with  a  genial,  gentle  play- 
fulness and  Christian  tenderness,  of  which  the 
Koman  satirist  knew  nothing.  Cowper's  satire  is 
spontaneous,  not  artificial,  not  the  ambition  of 
severity,  but  as  natural  and  playful  as  the  humor 
in  "John  Gilpin  ;'J  and  therefore  it  is  at  once  the 
most  telling  and  effective,  and  at  the  same  time 
the  most  interesting  and  attractive  in  the  lan- 
guage. It  is  exceedingly  seldom  that  satire  so 
powerful  is  so  penetrated  with  the  spirit  of  good- 
nature and  of  love  ;  and  that  a  native  faculty,  so 
fitted  and  disposed  for  shrewd  and  biting  notice 
and  remark,  is  found  so  imbued  with  grace  and 
gentleness. 

But  Cowper  could  pour  out  his  whole  soul  in 
sacred  invective  and  indignant  rebuke  of  all  forms 
of  sacrilege  and  impiety,  and  could  impress,  in 
verse  all  compact  with  thought  and  earnestness, 
the  sanctifying  and  beloved  themes  of  the  Gospel 
that  inspired  his  heart.  There  was  neither  hesita- 
tion nor  shrinking  here,  no  disguise  nor  mitigation, 
no  qualifying  nor  softening  of  the  truth  ;  but  with 
the  utmost  plainness  and  point  it  was  applied  to 
the   heart  and  conscience.     With   a  dignity  and 


PUNGENCY      OF      TRUTH.  179 

power  above  all  mere  rhetoric,  with  a  simplicity 
and  terseness  of  speech  that  did  not  admit  the 
possibility  of  being  misunderstood,  he  presented, 
in  his  poem  on  "  Truth/'  the  much-abused  and 
derided  doctrine  of  justification  by  faith  in  an 
atoning  Saviour.  With  what  unexpected  power 
and  pungency,  and,  at  the  same  time,  beauty,  does 
that  admirable  poem  open  : 

Man,  on  the  dubious  waves  of  error  tossed, 
His  ship  half  foundered,  and  his  compass  lost, 
Sees,  far  as  human  optics  may  command, 
A  sleeping  fog.  and  fancies  it  dry  land ; 
Spreads  all  his  canvas,  every  sinew  plies ; 
Pants  for  it.  aims  at  it,  enters  it.  and  dies ! 
Then  farewell  all  self-satisfying  schemes, 
His  well-built  systems,  philosophic  dreams; 
Deceitful  views  of  future  bliss,  farewell ! 
He  reads  bis  sentence  at  the  flame3  of  helL 
Hard  lot  of  man — to  toil  for  the  reward 
Of  virtue,  and  yet  lose  it !     Wherefore  hard  ? 
He  that  would  win  the  race  must  guide  his  horse 
Obedient  to  the  customs  of  the  course  ; 
Else,  though  unequaled  to  the  goal  he  flies, 
A  meaner  than  himself  shall  gain  the  prize. 
Grace  leads  the  right  way :  if  you  choose  the  wrong, 
Take  it,  and  perish ;  but  restrain  your  tongue ; 
Charge  not,  with  light  sufficient,  and  left  free, 
Your  willful  suicide  on  God's  decree. 

With  what  convincing  clearness  of  argument  and 
beauty  of  illustration  does  he  show  the  worthless- 
ness  of  all  hope  but  that  which  as  an  anchor  to 
the  soul,  sure  and  steadfast,  is  cast  within  the  vaiL 
Every  confidence  of  heaven  is  dismissed  as  imagi- 


180  1  ii  E     PHABI8KE. 

nary  and  vain,  whatever  sect  may  rear,  protect, 
and  nourish  it, 

If  wild  in  nature,  and  not  duly  found, 
Gothsemane,  in  thy  dear  hallowed  grouudl 

The  passage  beginning,  "  Who  judged  the  Phari- 
see ?"  is  a  masterly  comparison  and  inquisition 
of  different  forms  of  self-righteousness  ;  and  how 
beautiful  the  picture  of  the  humble  believing  cot- 
tager, with  her  pillow-,  bobbins,  and  Bible,  in  con- 
trast with  the  demigod  of  Parisian  applause,  jesting 
at  Scripture,  exalted  on  his  pedestal  of  pride,  and 
to  the  last  lured  by  his  vanity  to  believe  a  lie,  till 
the  fumes  of  frankincense  from  his  flatterers  min- 
gled with  the  smoke  that  received  him  in  the  bot- 
tomless pit.  Never  wrere  the  fatal  elements  of  a 
morality  founded  in  selfishness  and  pride  demon- 
strated in  more  direct  and  convincing  analysis  and 
light,  than  in  this  poem.  And  never  with  more 
attractive  and  subduing  truth  was  the  contrast 
drawn  between  such  motives  and  the  gratitude 
and  love  of  the  penitent  believing  heart,  resting 
only  on  Christ. 

The  poem  entitled  "  Expostulation/'  is  one  of 
the  highest  and  grandest  exhibitions  of  Cowper's 
genius,  unrivaled  by  any  passages  even  in  "  The 
Task."  From  the  first  wrord  in  the  opening  line 
to  the  closing  word  in  the  List  line,  it  is  all  fervid, 
glowing,  and  sublime,  as  if,  like  Dryden's  Ode,  it 


EXPOSTULATION.  181 

had  been  the  composition  of  a  single  night,  as  if 
the  subject  had  possessed  him  and  carried  him 
irresistibly  away,  instead  of  receiving  the  calm  and 
careful  application  of  his  mind,  day  by  day,  and 
that,  too,  under  the  burden  of  nameless  spiritual 
misery.  It  is  a  most  extraordinary  phenomenon, 
considering  the  known  condition  of  the  writer.  It 
presents  a  career  like  Elijah's  in  the  chariot  of 
flame,  yet  the  man  is  walking  on  earth,  under 
clouds  and  darkness.  With  most  impressive  sub- 
limity Cowper  reviewed  the  history  of  Judea  and 
of  England,  and,  as  if  burning  with  the  prophetic 
lire  of  an  old  inspired  Hebrew,  applied  the  lessons 
of  rebuke  and  warning  to  Ins  country's  sins.  With 
what  beauty  and  power  does  he  proclaim  the  cer- 
tainty of  retribution  upon  an  unthankful,  scornful 
land,  asserting  the  only  grounds  of  national  secur- 
ity and  prosperity,  dependence  upon  GUyl  and 
obedience  to  His  Word.  The  scathing  lines  ap- 
plied to  the  formalism  and  hypocrisy  of  the  Estab- 
lished Church,  are  as  truthful  and  terrible  now  as 
ever. 

When  nations  are  to  perish  in  their  sins, 
'Tis  in  the  Church  the  leprosy  begins. 

Solemn  and  pungent  are  the  questions  with  which 
the  poet  bids  Ins  country  stand  and  judge  herself 
as  having  incurred  the  anger  of  a  holy  God.  And 
one  of  the  most  stunning  interrogatories  proclaims 


182  EXPOSTULATION. 

an  iniquity  imbedded  in  the  very  constitution  of 
Church  and  State. 

Hast  thou  by  statute  showed  from  its  design 

The  Saviour's  feast,  His  own  blest  bread  and  wine, 

And  made  the  symbols  of  atoning  grace 

An  office-key,  a  picklock  to  a  place, 

That  infidels  may  prove  their  title  good 

By  an  oath  dipped  in  sacramental  blood  ? 

A  blot  that  will  be  still  a  blot,  in  spite 

Of  all  that  grave  apologists  may  write, 

And  though  a  bishop  toil  to  cleanse  the  stain, 

He  wipes  and  scours  the  silver  cup  in  vain. 

The  tide  of  impassioned  feeling  and  scrutinizing 
thought  in  this  poem  is  so  free,  so  flowing,  so  in- 
tense, that  it  seems  as  if  the  whole  must  have 
been  poured  forth  at  one  effort,  a  burning  torrent 
of  emotion  and  of  truth. 

In  these  poems  are  to  be  found  several  of  the 
most  affecting  notices,  drawn  evidently  from  his 
own  experience  of  the  misery  of  a  guilty  soul  be- 
neath the  terrors  of  conviction,  and  its  happiness 
and  gratitude  in  the  discovery  of  the  glory  of 
God's  grace.  In  the  poem  on  "  Truth"  there  is  a 
brief  but  most  impressive  reference  to  the  insanity 
of  suicide,  in  the  rejection  of  the  Scriptures,  which 
it  is  impossible  not  to  regard  as  his  own  judgment 
on  his  own  case. 

Thus  often  unbelief,  grown  sick  of  life, 
Flies  to  the  tempting  pool,  or  felon  knife, 
The  jury  meet,  the  coroner  is  short, 
And  lunacy  the  verdict  of  the  court. 


HUMILITY      AND      FAITH.  188 

Reverse  the  sentence,  let  the  truth  be  known, 

Such  lunacy  is  ignorance  alone ; 

They  know  not  (what  some  bishops  may  not  know) 

That  Scripture  is  the  only  cure  of  woe. 

That  field  of  promise,  how  it  flings  abroad 

Its  odor  o'er  the  Christian's  thorny  road  ! 

The  soul,  reposing  on  assured  relief, 

Feels  herself  happy  amidst  all  her  grief, 

Forgets  her  labor  as  she  toils  along, 

Weeps  tears  of  joy,  and  bursts  into  a  song. 

All  joy  to  the  believer !     He  can  speak, 
Trembling,  yet  happy,  confident,  yet  meek. 

Since  the  dear  hour  that  brought  me  to  Thy  foot, 
And  cut  up  all  my  follies  by  the  root, 
I  never  trusted  in  an  arm  but  Thine, 
Nor  hoped,  but  in  Thy  righteousness  divine. 
My  prayers  and  alms,  imperfect  and  defiled, 
"Were  but  the  feeble  efforts  of  a  child.  * 
Howe'er  performed,  it  was  their  brightest  part 
That  they  proceeded  from  a  grateful  heart. 
Cleansed  in  Thine  own  all-purifying  blood, 
Forgive  their  evil,  and  accept  their  good ; 
I  cast  them  at  Thy  feet ; — my  only  plea 
Is  what  it  was,  dependence  upon  Thee  ; 
"While  struggling  in  the  vale  of  tears  "below, 
That  never  failed,  nor  shall  it  fail  me  now. 

Angelic  gratulations  rend  the  skies, 
Pride  falls  unpitied,  never  more  to  rise, 
Humility  is  crowned,  and  Faith  receives  the  prize. 


Again,  in  the  poem  of  "  Hope"  the  author  de- 
scribes the  triumphs  of  immortal  Truth,  as  the 
Parent  of  Hope,  and  bids  all  mere  fancy  stand 
aloof  from  his  design,  so  that  the  light  and  shade, 
and  every  stroke  in  the  picture,  while  trembling  he 
undertakes  to  trace  so  divine  a  work,  may  be 
taken  from  realitv. 


184 


C  o  N  V  I  C  T  I  u  N 


For  few  believe  the  wonders  Thou  hast  wrought, 
And  none  can  teach  them  but  whom  Thou  hast  taught 

And  indeed  the  picture  here  drawn  is  of  a  beauty 
and  accuracy  that  can  find  no  rival  in  the  English 
language.  The  materials  required  to  produce  it 
are  not  at  the  command  of  the  ordinary  poet,  how- 
ever acute,  profound  and  vast  his  native  genius,  or 
all-entrancing  and  encompassing  his  imagination. 

If  ever  thou  hast  felt  another's  pain, 
If  ever  when  he  sighed  hast  sighed  again, 
If  ever  on  thine  eyelid  stood  the  tear 
That  pity  had  engendered,  drop  one  here. 
This  man  was  happy — had  the  world's  good  word, 
And  with  it  every  joy  it  could  afford. 
Friendship  and  love  seemed  tenderly  at  strife 
Which  most  should  sweeten  his  untroubled  life ; 
Politely  learn'd,  and  of  a  gentle  race, 
Good  breeding  and  good  sense  gave  all  a  grace ; 
And  whether  at  the  toilet  of  the  fair 
He  laughed  and  trifled,  made  him  welcome  there, 
Or  if  in  masculine  debate  he  shared, 
Insured  him  mute  attention  and  regard. 
Alas,  how  changed  !     Expressive  of  his  mind, 
His  eyes  are  sunk,  arms  folded,  head  reclined, 
Those  awful  syllables,  hell,  death,  and  sin, 
Though  whispered,  plainly  tell  what  works  within  ; 
That  conscience  there  performs  her  proper  part, 
And  writes  a  doomsday  sentence  on  his  heart ! 
Forsaking  and  forsaken  of  all  friends, 
He  now  perceives  where  earthly  pleasure  ends. 
Hard  task !  for  one  who  lately  knew  no  care. 
And  harder  still  as  learned  beneath  despair  ! 
His  hours  no  longer  pass  unmarked  away. 
A  dark  importance  saddens  every  day. 
He  hears  the  notice  of  the  clock,  perplexed. 
And  cries.  Perhaps  eternity  strikes  next! 


FORGIVENESS.  185 

Sweet  music  is  no  longer  music  here, 
And  laughter  sounds  like  madness  in  his  ear. 
His  grief  the  world  of  all  her  power  disarms, 
Wine  has  no  taste,  and  beauty  has  no  charms. 
God's  holy  word,  once  trivial  in  his  view, 
Now  by  the  voice  of  his  experience  true, 
Seems, 'as  it  is,  the  fountain  whence  alone 
Must  spring  that  hope  he  pants  to  make  his  own . 

Now  let  the  bright  reverse  be  known  abroad; 
Say  man's  a  worm,  and  power  belongs  to  God. 
As  when  a  felon,  whom  his  country's  laws 
Have  justly  doomed  for  some  atrocious  cause, 
Expects  in  darkness  and  heart-chilling  fears, 
The  shameful  close  of  all  his  misspent  years ; 
If  chance  on  heavy  pinions  slowly  borne, 
A  tempest  usher  in  the  dreaded  morn, 
Upon  his  dungeon  walls  the  lightnings  play, 
The  thunder  seems  to  summon  him  away, 
The  warder  at  the  door  his  key  applies, 
Shoots  back  the  bolt,  and  all  his  courage  dies. 
If  then,  just  then,  all  thoughts  of  mercy  lost, 
When  Hope,  long  lingering  at  last  yields  the  ghost, 
The  sound  of  pardon  pierce  his  startled  ear, 
He  drops  at  once  his  fetters  and  his  fear. 
A  transport  glows  in  all  he  looks  and  speaks, 
And  the  first  thankful  tears  bedew  his  cheeks. 
Joy,  far  superior  joy,  that  much  outweighs 
The  comfort  of  a  few  poor  added  days, 
Invades,  possesses,  and  o'erwhelms  the  soul 
Of  him  whom  Hope  has  with  a  touch  made  whole. 
'Tis  heaven,  all  heaven,  descend^  on  the  wings 
Of  the  glad  legions  of  the  King  orkings ; 
'Tis  more — 'tis  God  diffused  through  every  part, 
'Tie  God  Himself  triumphant  in  his  heart. 
0  welcome  now  the  sun's  once  hated  light  I 
His  noonday  beams  were  never  half  so  bright. 
Not  kindred  minds  alone  are  called  to  employ 
Their  hours,  their  days,  in  listening  to  his  joy ; 
Unconscious  nature,  all  that  he  surveys, 
Rocks,  groves,  and  streams  must  join  him  in  his  praise. 


186 


SLAVERY 


In  these  poems,  in  the  piece  on  "  Charity,"  we 
encounter  the  first  expressive  and  energetic  lines 
devoted  by  Cowper  to  the  description  of  his  ab- 
horrence of  slavery.  The  sentiments  are  those  not 
of  a  man  merely,  but  a  Christian  ;  not  -of  our  na- 
tive love  of  liberty — a  constituent  element  in  every 
human  mind — but  also  as  taught  by  grace,  and  by 
the  charity  which  is  the  fairest  and  foremost  in  the 
train  of  graces. 

Oh  most  degrading  of  all  ills  that  wait 
On  man,  a  mourner  in  his  best  estate ! 
All  other  sorrows  virtue  may  endure, 
And  find  submission  more  than  half  a  cure. 
Grief  is  itself  a  medicine,  and  bestowed 
To  improve  the  fortitude  that  bears  the  load, 
To  teach  the  wanderer,  as  his  woes  increase, 
The  path  of  wisdom,  all  whose  paths  are  peace. 
But  slavery ! — Virtue  dreads  it  as  her  grave  : 
Patience  itself  is  meanness  in  a  slave : 
Or,  if  the  will  and  sovereignty  of  God 
Bid  suffer  it  awhile,  and  kiss  the  rod, 
Wait  for  the  dawning  of  a  brighter  day, 
And  snap  the  chain  the  moment  when  you  may. 
Nature  imprints  upon  whate'er  we  see 
That  has  a  heart  and  life  in  it,  Be  free ! 
The  beasts  are  chjytered — neither  age  nor  force 
Can  quell  the  lovW>f  freedom  in  a  horse, 
He  breaks  the  curb  that  held  him  at  the  rack 
And,  conscious  of  an  unincumbered  back. 
Snuffs  up  the  morning  air,  forgets  the  rein ; 
Loose  fly  his  forelock  and  his  ample  mane  ; 
Responsive  to  the  distant  neigh,  he  neighs, 
Nor  stops,  till  overleaping  all  delays 
He  finds  the  pasture  where  his  fellows  graze. 

Canst  thou,  and  honored  with  a  Christian  name, 
Bay  what  is  woman-born,  and  feel  no  shame  ? 


EXPEDIENCY.  187 

Trade  in  the  blood  of  innocence,  and  plead 

Expedience  as  a  warrant  for  the  deed  ? 

So  may  the  wolf,  whom  famine  has  made  bold, 

To  quit  the  forest  and  invade  the  fold. 

So  may  the  ruffian,  who  with  ghostly  glide, 

Dagger  in  hand,  steals  close  to  your  bedside ; 

Not  he,  but  his  emergence  forced  the  door, 

He  found  it  inconvenient  to  be  poor. 

A  Briton  knows,  or,  if  he  knows  it  not, 
The  Scripture  placed  within  his  reach,  he  ought, 
That  souls  have  no  discriminating  hue, 
Alike  important  in  their  Maker's  view ; 
That  none  are  free  from  blemish  since  the  fall 
And  love  Divine  has  paid  one  price  for  alL 
The  wretch  that  works  and  weeps  without  relief 
Has  oxe  that  notices  his  silent  grief. 
He  from  whose  hand  alone  all  power  proceeds, 
Ranks  its  abuse  among  the  foulest  deeds, 
Considers  all  injustice  with  a  frown, 
But  marks  the  man  that  treads  his  fellow  down. 
Remember,  Heaven  has  an  avenging  rod ; 
To  smite  the  poor  is  treason  against  God. 


CHAPTER    XVI 


LADY   AUSTEN. — JOHN   GILPIN. — MADAME   GUION. — THE  COLUBRLAD. 
— COWPER'S  EXQUISITE   HUMOR. 


A  short  time  before  the  publication  of  this  vol- 
ume, the  same  Divine  providence  that  had  prepared 
for  Cowper  such  a  resting-place  and  home  in  the 
family  of  the  Unwin's,  brought  to  their  acquaint- 
ance a  new  friend,  whose  lively  wit,  and  influence 
over  the  mind  of  the  poet,  were  to  prove  the  occa- 
sion of  the  greatest  production  of  his  genius.  This 
was  Lady  Austen,  the  widow  of  Sir  Robert  Austen, 
and  sister  of  the  wife  of  one  of  Cowper's  neighbors, 
a  clergyman  at  Clifton,  about  a  mile  from  Olney. 
The  conversational  powers  of  this  lady  were  great, 
and  Cowper  was  pleased  and  delighted,  for  a  sea- 
son, with  her  acquaintance  and  friendship.  He 
described  her  to  his  friend,  Mr.  Unwin,  as  "  a  wo- 
man of  fine  taste  and  discernment,  with  mam- 
features  of  character  to  admire,  but  one  in  particu- 
lar, on  account  of  the  rarity  of  it,  to  engage  your 
attention  and  esteem.  •  She  has  a  degree  of  grati- 
tude in  her  composition,  so  quick  a  sense  of  obli- 


LADY     AUSTEN.  189 

gation,  as  is  hardly  to  b£  found  in  any  rank  of 
life,  and,  if  report  say  true,  is  scarce  indeed  in  the 
superior.  Discover  but  a  wish  to  please  her,  and 
she  never  forgets  it ;  not  only  thanks  you,  but  the 
tears  will  start  into  her  eyes  at  the  recollection  of 
the  smallest  service.  With  these  fine  feelings,  she 
has  the  most  harmless  vivacity  you  can  imagine." 
Lady  Austen,  for  about  two  years,  occupied  as  her 
residence  the  parsonage  which  Newton  had  vacated, 
the  garden  of  which  adjoined  that  of  Cowper,  with 
a  door  opened,  by  Newton,  between  them.  During 
those  two  years  the  two  families  were  on  terms  of 
intercourse  so  uninterrupted  and  intimate,  that 
they  almost  made  one  household,  and  for  a  season 
were  accustomed  to  dine  alternately  in  each  other's 
house.  "  Lady  Austen  and  we,"  said  Cowper  in 
one  of  his  letters  to  Mr.  Unwin,  "  pass  our  days  al- 
ternately at  each  other's  chateau.  In  the  morning 
T  walk  with  one  or  other  of  the  ladies,  and  in  the 
afternoon  wind  thread.  Thus  did  Hercules,  and 
thus  probably  did  Samson,  and  thus  do  I ;  and 
were  both  these  heroes  living,  I  should  not  fear  to 
challenge  them  to  a  trial  of  skill  in  that  business, 
or  doubt  to  beat  them  both.  As  to  killing  lions, 
and  other  amusements  of  that  kind,  with  which 
they  were  so  delighted,  I  should  be  their  humble 
servant,  and  beg  to  be  excused." 

How  animating  and  happy  was  the  influence  ex- 
erted by  Lady  Austen,  and  this  agreeable  change 


190 


SILVER      END 


and  excitement  in  their  ^manner  of  life  at  Olney, 
upon  the  mind  and  spirits  of  Cowper  may  be  judged 
from  that  exquisitely  beautiful  poem  addressed  to 
her  in  a  letter  during  her  absence  for  the  first  win- 
ter, in  London.  It  has  a  meaning,  judged  by  the 
result,  even  deeper  than  any  anticipation  in  the 
mind  of  the  writer  ;  for  indeed  by  that  friendship 
Divine  providence  was  arranging  the  causes  and 
occasions  of  the  most  precious  and  inestimable  ef- 
fort of  Cowper's  genius.  In  this  little  epistle  itself 
are  some  of  the  finest  lines  Cowper  ever  wrote. 


Mysterious  are  His  ways,  whose  power 
Brings  forth  that  unexpected  hour 
When  minds  that  never  met  before 
Shall  meet,  unite,  and  part  no  more. 
It  is  the  allotment  of  the  skies, 
The  hand  of  the  Supremely  Wise, 
That  guides  and  governs  our  affections, 
And  plans  and  orders  our  connections  ; 
Directs  us  in  our  distant  road, 
And  marks  the  bounds  of  our  abode. 
Thus  we  were  settled  when  you  found  us, 
Peasants  and  children  all  around  us, 
Not  dreaming  of  so  dear  a  friend, 
Deep  in  the  abyss  of  Silver  End. 
#  *  *  * 

This  page  of  Providence  quite  new, 
And  now  just  opening  to  our  view, 
Employs  our  present  thoughts  and  pains 
To  guess  and  spell  what  it  contains ; 
But  day  by  day,  and  year  by  year, 
Will  make  the  dark  enigma  clear, 
And  furnish  us  perhaps  at  last, 
Like  other  scenes  already  past, 
With  proof  that  we  and  our  affairs 


LADY     AUTEN.  191 

Are  part  of  a  Jehovah's  cares ; 
For  God  unfolds,  by  slow  degrees, 
The  purport  of  His  deep  decrees, 
Sheds  every  hour  a  clearer  light 
In  aid  of  our  defective  sight, 
And  spreads  at  length  before  the  soul 
A  beautiful  and  perfect  whole, 
Which  busy  man's  inventive  brain 
Toils  to  anticipate  in  vain. 

Say,  Anna,  had  you  never  known 
The  beauties  of  a  rose  full  blown, 
Could  you,  though  luminous  your  eye, 
By  looking  on  the  bud,  descry, 
Or  guess,  with  a  prophetic  power, 
The  future  splendor  of  the  flower  ? 
Just  so  the  Omnipotent,  who  turns 
The  system  of  a  world's  concerns, 
From  mere  minutiae  can  educe 
Events  of  most  important  use, 
And  bid  a  dawning  sky  display 
The  blaze  of  a  meridian  day. 
The  works  of  man  tend  one  and  all, 
As  needs  they  must,  from  great  to  small, 
And  vanity  absorbs  at  length 
The  monuments  of  human  strength. 
But  who  can  tell  how  vast  the  plan 
Which  this  day's  incident  began  ? 
Too  small,  perhaps,  the  slight  occasion 
For  our  dim-sighted  observation, 
It  passed  unnoticed,  as  the  bird 
That  cleaves  the  yielding  air  unheard, 
And  yet  may  prove,  when  understood, 
A  harbinger  of  endless  good. 

The  friendship  of  Lady  Austen  was  a  cordial  in- 
fluence provided  for  him  at  a  period  when  the  cloud 
of  dejection  upon  his  mind  seemed  to  be  gathering 
unusual  blackness.  His  interesting  and  absorbing 
occupation  with  his  first  poetical  volume  was  ended 


192 


ANIMATING     INFLUENCE 


by  its  publication,  and  as  yet  nothing  had  come  to 
supply  its  place.  Some  of  the  criticisms  upon  that 
volume  had  a  depressing  effect  upon  his  spirits  for 
a  season,  and  would  even  have  led  him,  he  some- 
where intimates,  to  renounce  poetry  altogether, 
had  it  not  been  for  the  friendly  and  encouraging 
admiration  of  his  volume  expressed  by  Dr.  Frank- 
lin. Cowper  told  his  friend  Unwin  that  he  felt,  on 
after  consideration,  "  rather  ashamed  of  having 
been  at  all  dejected  by  the  censure  of  the  critical 
reviewers,  who  certainly  could  not  read  without 
prejudice  a  book  replete  with  opinions  and  doctrines 
to  which  they  could  not  subscribe."  Southey  re- 
marked, in  regard  to  the  same  unfavorable  review, 
that  "  without  prejudice  on  the  score  of  opinions, 
and  without  individual  ill-will,  or  the  envious  dis- 
position which  not  unfrequently  produces  the  same 
effect,  a  dull  critic  or  a  pert  one  is  generally  ready 
enough  to  condemn  what  he  wants  heart  to  feel,  or 
understanding  to  appreciate.  This  reviewal  of 
Cowper's  first  volume  is  one  of  those  defunct  criti- 
cisms which  deserves  to  be  disinterred  and  gibbeted 
for  the  sake  of  example." 

Among  the  expedients  devised  by  Lady  Austen 
to  please  and  animate  the  mind  of  Cowper,  when 
the  alarming  tendency  to  deep  dejection  was  again 
becoming  manifest,  and  occupation  and  amuse- 
ment were  requisite,  was  the  happy  gift  of  a  small 
portable  printing-press,  on  which  he  could  strike 


JOHN     GILPIN. 


193 


off  his  own  compositions.  At  the  same  time  one 
of  his  dearest  friends  and  correspondents,  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Bull,  of  Newport  Pagnell,  a  dissenting  minis- 
ter of  deep  piety  and  varied  learning  and  abilities, 
put  the  poetry  of  Madame  Guion  into  his  hands, 
and  engaged .  him  in  the  pleasant  and  beneficial 
labor  of  translating  many  of  her  pieces  into  English 
verse.  In  the  letter  to  his  friend  Unwin,  giving 
an  account  of  this  employment,  he  related  in  his 
exquisitely  sportive  way,  an  encounter  which  he 
had  witnessed  between  a  kitten  and  a  viper,  which 
he  also  threw  into  the  shape  of  verse  in  that 
amusing  piece  of  humor  entitled  the  "  Colubriad." 
Some  of  the  most  beautiful  songs  were  also  com- 
posed by  the  poet,  for  Lady  Austen  to  set  them  to 
appropriate  music,  and  play  them  upon  the  harp- 
sichord. One  of  these  songs  was  the  ballad  on  the 
"  Loss  of  the  Royal  George,"  with  Admiral  Kem- 
penfelt  and  her  whole  crowded  crew  of  eight  hun- 
dred men.  This  was  one  of  Cowper's  most  favorite 
compositions  :  "  Toll  for  the  Brave."  He  translated 
it  into  Latin. 

At  the  same  time,  or  very  near  it,  on  the  occa- 
sion of  a  story  related  by  Lady  Austen,  he  com- 
posed the  humorous  ballad  of  "  John  Gilpin,"  and 
the  success  of  the  effort  had  the  happiest  effect 
upon  his  own  spirits.  He  was  sinking  into  deep 
dejection.  Lady  Austen,  who  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  try  every  possible  resource  for  his  relief, 


194  JOHN     GILPIN. 

observed  with  pain,  in  their  evening  circle,  how 
the  cloud  was  deepening,  and  remembering  from 
her  childhood  the  story  of  "John  Gilpin,"  repeated 
it  to  Cowper  with  such  admirable  merriment  and 
humor  that,  as  Hayley  says,  "  its  effect  upon  his 
fancy  had  the  air  of  enchantment."  He  told  Lady 
Austen  the  next  morning  that  the  drollery  took 
such  possession  of  him  that  during  the  greater 
part  of  the  night  he  had  been  kept  awake  by  con- 
vulsions of  laughter,  brought  on  by  the  recollection 
of  her  story  ;  and  indeed  that  he  could  not  help 
turning  it  into  a  ballad.  The  piece  immediately 
became  celebrated,  for  his  fiiend  Unwin  sent  it  at 
once  to  the  "  Public  Advertiser."  It  was  recited 
with  great  comic  power  by  Henderson  ;  it  made 
Cowper' s  friends  laugh  tears  ;  and  it  proved  an 
inexhaustible  source  of  merriment  with  multitudes 
who  never  dreamed  of  Cowper  being  the  author. 
"  They  do  nor  always  laugh  so  innocently,  and  at 
so  small  an  expense,"  said  Cowper  in  a  letter  to 
his  friend  Unwin  :  "  a  melancholy  that  nothing 
else  so  effectually  disperses,  engages  me  in  the 
arduous  task  of  being  merry  by  force  ;  and,  strange 
as  it  may  seem,  the  most  ludicrous  lines  I  ever 
wrote   have  been  written    in  the  I   mood  ; 

and,  but  for  that  saddest  mood,  perhaps  had  never 
been  written  at  nil."  Three  years  afterward, 
while  "  The  Task"  was  passing  through  the  press, 
"John   Gilpin."  which  had  not   even  then   been 


JOHN     GILPIN.  195 

published  with  Cowper's  name,  was  recited  by- 
Henderson  at  a  series  of  nightly  readings  to 
crowded  audiences  in  London.  The  ballad  was 
repriDted  from  the  old  newspaper,  and  "  Gilpin," 
passing  at  full  stretch  by  "  The  Bell"  at  Edmon- 
ton, was  to  be  seen  in  all  the  print-shops.  One 
printseller  sold  six  thousand,  and  Southey  in- 
forms us  that  the  profits  of  these  recitations  by  a 
reader  so  unrivaled  as  Henderson,  were  eight 
hundred  pounds.  Southey  says,  that  at  the  close 
of  One  of  his  performances,  a  person  from  the 
crowd  wriggled  up  to  him  and  exclaimed,  "  Pray, 
who  did  teach  you  to  read,  Mr.  Henderson  ?" 
"  My  mother,  sir,"  was  his  reply. 

Newton  told  Cowper  what  amusement  his 
famous  horseman  was  giving  to  the  public  ;  but 
the  letter  elicited  a  sad  reply,  (though  not  so 
sad  as  he  sometimes  wrote,)  for  he  was  now  again 
passing,  without  the  company  of  Newton,  through 
the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death.  "  I  have  pro- 
duced many  tilings,"  said  he,  "  under  the  influence 
of  despair,  which  hope  would  not  have  permitted 
to  spring.  But  if  the  soil  of  that  melancholy  in 
which  I  have  walked  so  long  has  thrown  up  here 
and  there  an  unprofitable  fungus,  it  is  well  at 
least  that  it  is  not  chargeable  with  having  brought 
forth  poison.  Like  you,  I  see,  or  think  I  can  see, 
that  Gilpin  may  have  its  use.  Causes  in  appear- 
ance trivial  produce  often  the  most  beneficial  con- 


196  JOURNEY      TO     CLIFTON. 

sequences  ;  and  perhaps  my  volumes  may  now 
travel  to  a  distance  which,  if  they  had  not  been 
ushered  into  the  world  by  that  notable  horseman, 
they  would  never  have  reached." 

It  was  just  about  the  time  of  the  composition 
of  this  ballad  that  Cowper  wrote  another,  for 
Lady  Austen  to  compose  the  music,  being  a  play- 
ful account  of  a  journey  attempted  by  Cowper 
and  Mrs.  Unwin  to  Clifton,  the  abode  of  Lady 
Austen's  sister  in  their  neighborhood.  Cowper 
entitled  it  "  The  distressed  Travelers,  or  Labor  in 
vain,  an  excellent  new  song  to  a  tune  never  sung 
before."  This  poem  was  published  in  the  "  Monthly 
Magazine"  for  January  1808,  but  from  that  time  to 
the  publication  of  Southey's  edition  of  the  works 
of  the  poet  in  1836,  was  never  printed  in  any  col- 
lection : 

I  sing  of  a  journey  to  Clifton 

"We  would  have  performed,  if  we  could, 
Without  cart  or  barrow  to  lift  on 

Poor  Mary  and  me  through  the  flood. 
Slee,  sla,  slud, 
Stuck  in  the  mud  ; 
Oh,  it  is  pretty  to  wade  through  a  flood ! 

So  away  we  went  slipping  and  sliding 

Hop,  hop,  d  la  mode  de  deux  frogs. 
'Tis  near  as  good  walking  as  riding 
When  ladies  are  dressed  in  their  clogs. 
Wheels  no  doubt, 
Go  briskly  about, 
But  they  clatter,  and  rattle,  and  make  such  a  rout ! 


JOURNEY      TO      CLIFTON.  197 

SHE. 

Well  now,  I  protest,  it  is  charming ; 

How  finely  the  weather  improves  1 
That  cloud,  though,  is  rather  alarming ; 

How  slowly  and  stately  it  moves  I 

HE. 

Pshaw  !  never  mind ; 
'Tis  not  in  the  wind  ; 
"We  are  traveling  south,  and  shall  leave  it  behind. 

SHE. 

I  am  glad  we  are  come  for  an  airing, 
For  folks  may  be  pounded  and  penned, 

Until  they  grow  rusty,  not  caring 
To  stir  half  a  mile  to  an  end. 

HE. 

The  longer  we  stay 

The  longer  we  may ; 

It  is  a  folly  to  think  about  weather  or  way. 

SHE. 

But  now  I  begin  to  be  frighted ; 

If  I  fall,  what  a  way  I  should  roll ! 
I  am  glad  that  the  bridge  was  indicted — 

Stop !  stop !  I  am  sunk  in  a  hole  1 


Nay,  never  care  1 
'Tis  a  common  affair ; 
You  '11  not  be  the  last  that  will  set  a  foot  there. 

SHE. 

Let  me  breathe  now  a  little,  and  ponder 
On  what  it  were  better  to  do ; 

That  terrible  lane  I  see  yonder 

I  think  we  shall  never  get  through. 

HE. 

So  I  think,  I, 
But  by  the  by, 
"We  never  shall  know,  if  we  never  should  try. 


198 


J  0  U  B  N  E  V      TO      CLIFTON. 


But  should  wo  get  there  how  shall  we  get  home  ? 
What  a  terrible  deal  of  bad  road  we  have  past ! 
Slipping  and  sliding,  and  if  we  should  come 
To  a  difficult  stile,  I  am  ruined  at  last. 

Oh  this  lane  1 

Now  it  is  plain, 
That  struggling  and  striving  is  labor  in  vain. 

HE. 

Stick  fast,  then,  while  I  go  and  look. 

SHE. 

Don't  go  away,  for  fear  I  should  fall ! 

HE. 

I  have  examined  it  every  nook, 

And  what  you  have  here  is  a  sample  of  all. 
Come,  wheel  round ; 
The  dirt  we  have  found 
Would  be  an  estate  at  a  farthing  a  pound. 

Now,  sister  Ann.  the  guitar  you  must  take. 

Set  it,  and  sing  it,  and  make  it  a  song. 
I  have  varied  the  verse  for  variety's  sake, 
And  cut  it  off  short  because  it  was  long. 
'Tis  hobbling  and  lame, 
Which  critics  won't  blame, 
For  the  sense  and  the  sound  they  say  should  be  the 


Such  pieces  as  these  reveal  a  ruling  charac- 
teristic of  Cowper's  mind,  heart,  and  fancy.  It 
was  a  propensity  to  fun  and  humor,  as  deep  and 
genuine  as  ever  accompanied  or  constituted  the 
power  of  genius.  But  in  the  extreme  it  is  a  dan- 
gerous characteristic.  It  was  in  him  so  strong  a 
disposition,  that  unless  it  had  been  repressed  by 
the  prevalence    of  his    constitutional   malady,  it 


WIT     CHASTENED.  199 

must  have  worked  mischief,  must  have  absorhed 
and  triumphed  over  the  graver  meditative  power 
of  his  imagination,  and  might  have  ruled  in  his 
works  to  the  exclusion  of  serious  and  religious 
themes,  instead  of  sparkling  in  them,  and  sweetly, 
richly  coloring  and  enlivening  them.  The  tend- 
ency and  habit  of  jocoseness,  indulged  and  cher- 
ished, have  gone  sometimes  even  in  clergymen  to 
an  extreme  that  has  quite  destroyed  their  useful- 
ness ;  and,  had  it  not  been  for  Cowper's  mental 
depression,  perhaps  he  would  have  continued  in 
life  just  as  he  says  he  set  out,  only  to  giggle  and 
to  make  giggle.  With  such  an  exhilarating  fount- 
ain of  humor  and  enjoyment  of  wit,  and  such  an 
irresistible  proneness  to  laughable  and  comic  de- 
scription, had  he  been  permitted  by  uninterrupted 
health  and  elasticity  of  spirits  to  mingle  freely 
with  the  polished  circles  of  his  family  in  high  and 
fashionable  life,  the  society  by  which  he  must  have 
been  surrounded  would  have  borne  him  away 
upon  its  surface,  and  he  never  would  have  been 
known  as  "  England's  Christian  poet."  Perhaps 
it  was  necessary,  for  the  consecration  of  his  genius 
to  the  highest  themes,  to  mingle  that  gloom  of 
depression  in  the  habit  of  his  heart ;  if  so,  then 
that  exquisitely  beautiful  hymn,  composed  on  the 
eve  of  his  madness,  had  a  meaning  extended  over 
his  whole  life,  of  which  he  little  dreamed. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 


COWPERS  PASSION  FOR  FUN  AND  HUMOR. — THE  DISCIPLINE  TO 
BALANCE  IT. — EXQUISITE  LESSONS  AND  SCENES  OF  SOCIAL  JOY 
IN  HIS  POEMS. — MINGLED  SPORTIYENESS  AND  SOLEMNITY  OF  HI? 
LETTERS  TO   NEWTON. 


Performance  in  this  world  is  often  prevented 
by  theoretical  perfection  ;  and  one  evil  has  to  be 
set  to  keep  guard  over  another.  The  skillful  work- 
man has  to  prepare  his  finest  gold  for  use  and 
workmanship  with  a  portion  of  alloy.  A  cold  day 
in  nature  is  sometimes  necessary  to  set  the  vegeta-- 
tion ;  and  storms  are  necessary  to  prevent  even 
our  finest  weather  from  injuring  us.  Cowper's  na- 
tive tendency  to  social  pleasantry  and  humor  per- 
haps needed  to  be  chastened,  or  at  least  balanced, 
for  under  all  his  gloom  the  drollest  recollections 
were  sometimes  uppermost  in  his  mind.  The  only 
thing  he  remembered  of  his  friend  Hill's  poetry  in 
the  Nonsense  Club,  in  their  early  days,  was  the 
Homeric  line,  "  To  whom  replied  the  Devil,  yard- 
long  tailed."  Such  snatches  of  ludicrous  recollec- 
tions he  is  continually  presenting  in  his  letters  ; 
one  of  them  to  Newton  he  finishes  with  a  reference 


A      MERRY      HEART.  201 

to  Dr.  Scott,  of  the  close  of  whose  sermon  he  gives 
Newton  an  account  of  a  droll  blunder  made  by 
the  preacher,  who,  quoting  a  passage  of  Scripture, 
said  to  his  hearers,  "  Open  your  wide  mouths,  and 
I  will  fill  them." 

Now  nothing  is  more  delightful,  more  genial, 
and  congenial  than  such  a  disposition.  Deliver  us 
from  men  who  can  not  relish  pleasantry,  and,  if 
need  be,  even  in  the  midst  of  misery ;  such  men 
can  not  have  your  entire  confidence,  but  are  to  be 
held  as  Shakspeare  or  Luther  would  have  regarded 
men  who  hated  music.  "  A  merry  heart  doeth  good 
like  a  medicine,  but  a  broken  spirit  drieth  the 
bones/'  But  the  ceaseless  thirst  and  craving  for 
amusement  and  merriment,  as  if  it  were  the  whole 
of  life,  is  a  fever  that  dries  and  consumes  the  soul 
.  more  fatally.  A  creature  constituted  with  a  very 
keen  relish  for  the  pleasures  of  a  merry  circle,  and 
habituated  to  rely  upon  them,  is  not  fitted  to  en- 
counter any  change  of  weather,  or  to  ride  through 
rough  seas.  Such  a  person  is  like  a  vessel  carelessly 
loaded  with  such  materials,  that  there  is  danger  of 
a  sudden  shifting  of  the  cargo,  and  inevitable  ship- 
wreck in  consequence. 

Luxury  gives  the  mind  a  childish  cast, 
And  while  she  polishes,  perverts  the  taste. 
Habits  of  close  attention,  thinking  heads, 
Become  more  rare  as  dissipation  spreads, 
Till  authors  hear  at  length  one  general  cry, 
Tickle  and  entertain  us.  or  we  die, 
9* 


202 


A      MERRY      HEART. 


There  is  a  higher  quality.  "  Is  any  merry  ?  Let 
him  sing  psalms  ;"  that  taste  and  faculty  is  the  ce- 
lestial balance  in  the  soul.  If  any  man  has  learned 
to  do  that  with  the  heart,  he  has  learned  it  on  such 
grounds  as  have  taught  him  most  solemnly  and 
profoundly  the  madness  of  the  man  of  mere  mirth- 
fulness  ;  but  there  is  room  for  happiness  and  joy 
in  his  affections,  his  mind,  his  whole  being,  to  the 
utmost  extent  to  which  occasion  may  ever  call  for 
merriment.  But  until  he  has  learned  to  do  that, 
until  he  has  gained  that  hope  which  is  an  anchor 
in  eternity,  the  end  of  his  mirth  is  heaviness  ;  for, 
"  Take  thine  ease,  eat,  drink,  and  be  merry,"  is  the 
rule,  but  the  heart  of  fools  is  in  the  house  where 
such  mirth  reigns,  and  folly  is  joy,  and  joy  is  folly 
to  him  that  is  destitute  of  wisdom. 

That  proverb  also  is  as  full  of  truth  as  pithiness,* 
that  "  the  laughter  of  fools  is  like  the  crackling  of 
thorns  under  a  pot;"  and  persons  who  live  for  noth- 
ing but  to  giggle  and  make  giggle  are  the  most  un- 
mirthful  beings  in  the  world.  Cowper's  early  asso- 
ciates, when  he  knew  nothing  higher  or  better  than 
worldly  mirth,  were  sad  illustrations.  A  creature 
suddenly  paralyzed  and  stiffened  in  the  act  and 
attitude  of  boisterous  laughter  would  be  a  hideous 
sight  ;  but  an  immortal  being  who  knows  nothing 
but  giggling  and  merriment,  and  imagines  that  life 
has  no  other  end  than  such  uninterrupted  enjoyment, 


SOCIAL      HAPPINESS.  203 

would  be,  to  spiritual  spectators  at  least,  a  much 
more  deplorable  spectacle. 

How  beautiful,  in  this  connection,  are  Cowper's 
lines  on  social  life  and  conversation,  along  with  that 
exquisite  picture  of  the  walk  to  Emmaus.  Well 
might  Cowper  ask, 

Is  sparkling  wit  the  world's  exclusive  right  ? 
The  fixed  fee-simple  of  the  vain  and  light? 

Nay,  does  it  not  much  rather  belong  to  those  who 
have  received  in  fee-simple  an  eternal  inheritance 
of  love,  joy,  peace  ?  Assuredly  the  hope  of  heaven 
can  not  quench  or  obscure  the  play  of  a  faculty 
whose  happiest  permanent  abode  is  in  that  mind 
which  is  the  most  serene  and  thoughtful.  Piety 
restrains  and  curbs  its  wantonness,  and  prevents  it 
from  assuming  the  part  of  the  mere  trifler,  and 
thus  at  the  same  time  gives  it  a  usefulness  unknown 
before,  and  makes  it  shine  the  brighter  for  its  puri- 
fication. Such  conclusions  were  the  fruits  of  Cow- 
per's  own  experience,  having  tried  both  the  paths 
of  this  world's  merriment  and  of  religious  peace 
and  joy  ;  and  he  has  thrown  the  celestial  knowledge 
he  had  gained  into  some  of  the  most  beautiful  les- 
sons and  pictures  of  his  poetry. 

The  mind  dispatched  upon  her  busy  toil, 
Should  range  where  Providence  has  bless'd  the  soil ; 
Visiting  every  flower  with  labor  meet, 
And  gathering  all  her  treasures,  sweet  by  sweet, 


204 


T  UE      WALK      T  u      E  M  M  AUS. 


She  should  imbue  the  tongue  with  what  she  sips, 
And  shed  the  balmy  blessing  on  the  lips, 
That  good  diffused  may  more  abundant  grow, 
And  speech  may  praise  the  power  that  bids  it  flow. 

Yet  Fashion,  leader  of  a  chattering  train, 
"Whom  man  for  his  own  hurt  permits  to  reign, 
Who  shifts  and  changes  all  things  but  his  shape. 
And  would  degrade  her  votary  to  an  ape. 
The  fruitful  parent  of  abuse  and  wrong. 
Holds  a  usurped  dominion  o'er  his  tongue; 
Here  sits  and  prompts  him  with  his  own  disgrace, 
Prescribes  the  theme,  the  tone,  and  the  grimace, 
And,  wheu  accomplished  in  her  wayward  school. 
Calls  gentleman  whom  she  has  made  a  fooL 
'Tis  an  unalterable  fixed  decree, 
That  none  could  frame  or  ratify  but  she, 
That  heaven  and  helU  and  righteousness  and  sin, 
Snares  in  his  path,  and  foes  that  lurk  within, 
God  and  His  attributes  (a  field  of  day 
Where  'tis  an  angel's  happiness  to  stray) 
Fruits  of  his  love,  and  wonders  of  his  might, 
Be  never  named  in  ears  esteemed  polite  ; 
That  he  who  dares,  when  she  forbids,  be  grave, 
Shall  stand  proscribed,  a  madman  or  a  knave, 
A  close  designer,  not  to  be  believed, 
Or,  if  excused  that  charge,  at  least  deceived. 


The  time  is  short,  and  there  are  souls  on  earth, 
Though  future  pain  may  serve  for  present  mirth, 
Acquainted  with  the  woes  that  fear  or  shame 
By  fashion  taught,  forbade  them  once  to  name, 
And  having  felt  the  pangs  you  deem  a  jest, 
Have  proved  them  truths  too  big  to  be  expressed. 
Go  seek  on  revelation's  hallowed  ground, 
Sure  to  succeed,  the  remedy  they  found ; 
Touched  by  that  Power  that  you  have  dared  to  mock, 
That  makes  seas  stable,  and  dissolves  the  rock, 
Your  heart  shall  yield  a  life-renewing  stream, 
That  fools,  as  you  have  done,  shall  call  a  dream. 
It  happened  on  a  solemn  evening  tide, 


THE     WALK      TO     B  M  M  A  U  8 .  205 

Soon  alter  lie  that  was  our  Surety  died, 

Two  bosom  friends,  each  pensively  inclined, 

The  scene  of  all  those  sorrows  left  behind, 

Sought  their  own  village,  busied  as  they  went, 

In  musings  worthy  of  the  great  event. 

They  spake  of  Him  they  loved,  of  Him  whose  life, 

Though  blameless,  had  incurred  perpetual  strife, 

"Whose  deeds  had  left,  in  spite  of  hostile  arts, 

A  deep  memorial  graven  on  their  hearts. 

The  recollection,  like  a  vein  of  ore, 

The  further  traced,  enriched  them  still  the  more. 

They  thought  Him,  and  they  justly  thought  Him,  one 

Sent  to  do  more  than  He  appeared  to  have  done, 

To  exalt  a  people,  and  to  place  them  high 

Above  all  else ;  and  wondered  He  should  die. 

Ere  yet  they  brought  their  journey  to  an  end, 

A  stranger  joined  them  courteous  as  a  friend, 

And  asked  them,  with  a  kind,  engaging  air, 

What  their  affliction  was,  and  begged  a  share. 

Informed,  He  gathered  up  the  broken  thread. 

And,  truth  and  wisdom  gracing  all  He  said, 

Explained,  illustrated,  and  touched  so  well 

The  tender  theme  on  which  they  chose  to  dwell, 

That,  reaching  home,  the  night,  they  said,  is  near, 

We  must  not  now  be  parted,  sojourn  here. 

The  new  acquaintance  soon  became  a  guest, 

And  made  so  welcome  at  their  simple  feast, 

He  bless'd  the  bread,  but  vanished  at  the  word, 

And  left  them  both  exclaiming,  '"T  was  the  Lord ! 

Did  not  our  hearts  feel  all  He  deigned  to  say, 

Did  they  not  burn  within  us  by  the  way  ?" 

Now  theirs  was  converse,  such  as  it  behooves 
Man  to  maintain,  and  such  as  God  approves. 
Their  views  indeed  were  indistinct  and  dim, 
But  yet  successful,  being  aimed  at  Him. 
Christ  and  His  character  their  only  scope, 
Their  object,  and  their  subject,  and  their  hope. 
They  felt  what  it  became  them  much  to  feel 
And,  wanting  Him  to  loose  the  sacred  seal, 
Found  him  as  prompt  as  their  desire  was  true 
To  spread  the  new-born  glories  in  their  view. 


200" 


THE     WALK     T  O      KMMAU3. 


Well  I  what  are  ages,  and  the  lapse  of  time, 
Matched  against  truths  as  lasting  as  sublime  ? 
Can  length  of  years  on  God  Himself  exact  ? 
Or  make  that  fiction  which  was  once  a  fact? 
No !  marble  and  recording  bras3  decay, 
And,  like  the  graver's  memory,  pass  away ; 
The  works  of  man  inherit,  as  is  just, 
Their  author's  frailty,  and  return  to  dust. 
But  truth  Divine  forever  stands  secure, 
Its  head  is  guarded,  as  its  base  is  sure ; 
Fixed  in  the  rolling  flood  of  endless  years 
The  pillar  of  the  eternal  plan  appears. 
The  raving  storm  and  dashing  wave  defies, 
Built  by  that  Architect  who  built  the  skies. 
Hearts  may  be  found,  that  harbor  at  this  hour 
That  love  of  Christ,  and  all  its  quickening  power, 
And  lips  unstained  by  folly  or  by  strife, 
Whose  wisdom,  drawn  from  the  deep  well  of  life, 
Tastes  of  its  healthful  origin,  and  flows, 
A  Jordan  for  the  ablution  of  our  woes. 
0  days  of  heaven,  and  nights  of  equal  praise, 
Serene  and  peaceful  as  those  heavenly  days, 
When  souls  drawn  upward  in  communion  sweet, 
Enjoy  the  stillness  of  some  close  retreat, 
Discourse,  as  if  released,  and  safe  at  home, 
Of  dangers  past,  and  wonders  yet  to  come, 
And  spread  the  sacred  treasures  of  the  breast 
Upon  the  lap  of  covenanted  rest ! 


In  contrast  with  this  most  attractive  and  de- 
lightful picture,  let  us  note  how  the  sight  of  the  un- 
devout  gayety  of  a  thoughtless  world,  in  one  of  the 
great  exchanges  of  its  mirthfulness,  affected  Cow- 
per.  He  is  writing  his  friend  Unwin  in  regard  to 
the  scenes  at  Brighton.  "  There  is  not,  I  think, 
so  melancholy  a  sight  in  the  world  (a  hospital  is 
not  to  be  compared  with  it)  as  that  of  a  thousand 


T  II  eUQHTLESSNESS,  20T 

persons  distinguished  by  the  name  of  gentry,  who, 
gentle  perhaps  by  nature,  and  made  more  gentle 
by  education,  have  the  appearance  of  being  inno- 
cent and  inoffensive,  yet  being  destitute  of  all  re- 
ligion, or  not  at  all  governed  by  the  religion  they 
profess,  are  none  of  them  at  any  great  distance 
from  an  eternal  state,  where  self-deception  will  be 
impossible,  and  where  amusements  can  not  enter. 
Some  of  them,  we  may  say,  will  be  reclaimed  ;  it 
is  most  probable,  indeed,  that  some  of  them  will, 
because  mercy,  if  one  may  be  allowed  the  expres- 
sion, is  fond  of  distinguishing  itself  by  seeking  its 
objects  among  the  most  desperate  class  ;  but  the 
Scripture  gives  no  encouragement  to  the  warmest 
charity  to  hope  for  deliverance  for  them  all.  When 
I  see  an  afflicted  and  unhappy  man,  I  say  to  my- 
self, there  is,  perhaps,  a  man  whom  the  world 
would  envy,  if  they  knew  the  value  of  his  sorrows, 
which  are  possibly  intended  only  to  soften  his 
heart,  and  to  turn  his  auctions  toward  their  prop- 
er center.  But  when  I  see  or  hear  of  a  crowd  of 
voluptuaries  who  have  no  ears  but  for  music,  no 
eyes  but  for  splendor,  and  no  tongue  but  for  im- 
pertinence and  folly,  I  say,  or  at  least  I  see  occa- 
sion to  say,  '  This  is  madness  ;  this,  persisted  in, 
must  have  a  tragical  conclusion.  It  will  condemn 
you  not  only  as  Christians  unworthy  of  the  name, 
but  as  intelligent  creatures.  You  know  by  the 
light  of  nature,  if  you  have  not  quenched  it,  that 


208  BPOBTIYENKS8. 

there  is  a  God,  and  that  a  life  like  yours  can  not 
be  according  to  His  will/  " 

Some  of  Cowper's  letters  to  Newton,  as  well  as 
his  other  correspondents,  are  exquisitely  sportive. 
His  sense  of  the  ludicrous  was  keen  and.  delicate, 
and  no  man  that  ever  wrote  English  was  happier 
in  his  descriptions  of  humorous  and  ridiculous 
scenes  and  encounters.  We  may  refer,  for  illus- 
tration in  his  prose,  to  his  letter  to  Newton,  giving 
an  account  of  the  beadle  thrashing  the  thief,  the 
constable  the  beadle,  and  the  lady  the  constable  ; 
a  story  winch  in  rhyme  would  have  made  a  rival  of 
"John  Gilpin/' and  would  give  some  original  Cruik- 
shanks  in  engraving  a  subject  of  admirable  humor. 
His  description  of  the  life  of  an  Antediluvian,  and 
also  of  the  chase  that  took  place  in  Olney  on  the 
escape  of  his  tame  hare,  and  of  the  donkey  that 
ran  away  with  the  market-woman  ;  as  also  his 
letters  in  the  form  of  prose,  but  in  swift  galloping 
metre,  are  happy  illustrations  of  his  native  pro- 
pensity and  power.  Perhaps  the  very  drollest 
letters  in  the  whole  of  his  private  correspondence 
as  well  as  the  darkest  and  gloomiest,  are  to  New- 
ton «j  sufficiently  refuting  the  ill-natured  insinua- 
tion which  we  have  already  had  occasion  to  notice 
on  the  part  of  Southey,  that  it  seemed  as  if  Cow- 
per  always  went  to  his  correspondence  with  Newton 
as  if  he  were  a  sinner  going  to  the  confessional,  or 
toiling  under  a   task.     There  are  numerous  inci- 


J, 


THE      HARES 


Cbeever's  Cowpei 


p.  2d- 


HUMOROUS      LETTERS.  209 

dental  notices,  as  well  as  whole  epistles,  that 
demonstrate  how  very  unjust  any  intimation  of  this 
nature  must  have  been  ;  unjust  to  Cowper  himself 
as  well  as  Newton,  and  conveying  an  idea  of  con- 
straint, if  not  dissimulation,  where  there  was  never 
any  thing  but  openness  and  freedom. 

For  example,  Cowper  sent  to  Newton,  in  one  of 
his  letters,  the  following  lines,  entitled  Mary  and 
John  : 

If  John  marries  Mary,  and  Mary  alone, 

'Tis  a  very  good  match  between  Mary  and  John. 

Should  John  wed  a  score,  oh  the  claws  and  the  scratches ! 

It  can't  be  a  match ;  'tis  a  bundle  of  matches. 

In  another  letter,  November  27,  1781,  he  refers  to 
this  trifle,  and  says  to  Newton,  "  I  never  wrote  a 
copy  of  '  Mary  and  John'  in  my  life,  except  that 
which  I  sent  to  you.  It  was  one  of  those  bagatelles 
which  sometimes  spring  up  like  mushrooms  in  my 
imagination,  either  while  I  am  writing,  or  just  be- 
fore I  begin.  /  sent  it  to  you,  because  to  you  I  send 
any  thing  that  I  think  may  raise  a  smile,  but 
should  never  have  thought  of  multiplying  the  im- 
pression." 

Now  let  us  take,  as  additional  instances  of  the 
familiar  and  playful  attitude  of  his  mind  in  his 
correspondence  with  Newton,  first,  an  amusing  let- 
ter, which  beautifully  sets  forth  his  motive  and  man- 
ner in  writing  his  admirable  poem  "  On  Charity  ;" 
and  second,  as  an  example  of  the  spontaneous  ease 


210 


LETTERS     TO      NEWTON 


with  which  his  thoughts  flowed  in  the  particular 
form  of  versification  in  which  that  poem  was  cast, 
his  poetical  letter  to  Mrs.  Newton,  thanking  her 
for  a  present  of  oysters.  Both  these  epistles  were 
in  the  same  year,  1781. 


"  My  very  dear  friend,  I  am  going  to  send,  what 
when  you  have  read,  you  may  scratch  your  head, 
and  say  I  suppose,  there  's  nobody  knows,  whether 
what  I  have  got,  be  verse  or  not ; — by  the  tune  and 
the  time,  it  ought  to  be  rhyme  ;  but  if  it  be,  did 
ever  you  see,  of  late  or  of  yore,  such  a  ditty  before  ? 

"  I  have  writ  '  Charity/  not  for  popularity,  but 
as  well  as  I  could,  in  hopes  to  do  good  ;  and  if  the 
*  Reviewer'  should  say  to  be  sure,  the  gentleman's 
muse  wears  Methodist  shoes,  you  may  know  by  her 
pace,  and  talk  about  grace,  that  she  and  her  bard 
have  little  regard  for  the  taste  and  fashions,  and 
ruling  passions,  and  hoidening  play,  of  the  modern 
day  ;  and  though  she  assume  a  borrowed  plume, 
and  now  and  then  wear  a  tittering  air,  'tis  only  her 
plan,  to  catch  if  she  can,  the  giddy  and  gay,  as 
they  go  that  way.  by  a  production  of  a  new  con- 
struction ;  she  has  baited  her  trap,  in  the  hoi 
snap  all  that  may  come,  with  a  sugar-plum.  His 
opinion  in  this  will  not  be  amiss  ;  'tis  what  I  in- 
tend, my  principal  end  ;  and  if  I  succeed,  and 
folks  should  read,  till  a  few  are  brought  to  a  serious 
thought,  I  shall  think  I  am  paid  for  all  I  have 


LETTERS     TO     NEWTON.  211 

said,  and  all  I  have  done,  although  I  have  run, 
many  a  time,  after  a  rhyme,  as  far  as  from  hence 
to  the  end  of  my  sense,  and  hy  hook  or  by  crook, 
write  another  book,  if  I  live  and  am  here,  another 
year. 

"  I  have  heard  before  of  a  room  with  a  floor,  laid 
upon  springs,  and  such  like  things,  with  so  much 
art  in  every  part,  that  when  you  went  in,  you  was 
forced  to  begin  a  minuet  pace,  with  an  air  and  a 
grace,  swimming  about,  now  in  and  now  out,  with 
a  deal  of  state,  in  a  figure  of  eight,  without  pipe 
or  string,,  or  any  such  thing  ;  and  now  I  have  writ, 
in  a  rhyming  fit,  what  will  make  you  dance,  and 
as  you  advance,  will  keep  you  still,  though  against 
your  will,  dancing  away,  alert  and  gay,  till  you 
come  to  an  end  of  what  I  have  penn'd,  which  that 
you  may  do,  ere  madam  and  you  are  quite  worn 
out  with  jigging  about,  I  take  my  leave,  and  here 
you  receive  a  bow  profound,  down  to  the  ground, 
from  your  humble  me. — W.  C." 

The  other  epistle  to  Mrs.  Newton  is  one  of  the 
happiest  specimens  of  Cowper's  perfectly  natural 
and  easy  command  of  the  best  language,  the  apt- 
est  familiar  words,  trooping  spontaneously  to  their 
places  in  flowing  and  harmonious  verse  ;  an  illus- 
tration of  what  he  once  told  Mr.  Unwin,  that  when 
he  thought  at  all,  he  thought  most  naturally  in 
rhyme. 


212 


LETTERS      TO      N  E  W T  O N 


A  noble  theme  demands  a  noble  versp, 
In  such  I  thank  you  for  your  fine  oysters. 
The  barrel  was  magnificently  large, 
But  being  sent  to  Olney  at  free  charge, 
Was  not  inserted  in  the  driver's  list, 
And  therefore  overlooked,  forgot,  or  missed. 
For  when  the  messenger  whom  we  dispatched 
Inquired  for  oysters,  Hob  his  noddle  scratched, 
Denying  that  his  wagon  or  his  wain 
Did  any  such  commodity  contain, 
In  consequence  of  which,  your  welcome  boon 
Did  not  arrive  till  yesterday  at  noon ; 
In  consequence  of  which  some  chanced  to  die, 
And  some,  though  very  sweet,  were  very  dry. 
Now  madam  says  (and  what  she  says  must  still 
Deserve  attention,  say  she  what  she  will) 
That  what  we  call  the  diligence,  becase 
It  goes  to  London  with  a  swifter  pace, 
Would  better  suit  the  carriage  of  your  gift, 
Returning  downward  with  a  pace  as  swift ; 
And  therefore  recommends  it  with  this  aim, 
To  save  at  least  three  days,  the  price  the  same ; 
For  though  it  will  not  carry  or  convey 
For  less  than  twelve  pence,  send  whate'er  you  may, 
For  oysters  bred  upon  the  salt  sea-shore, 
Packed  in  a  barrel,  they  will  charge  no  more. 
News  have  I  none  that  I  can  deign  to  write, 
Save  that  it  rained  prodigiously  last  night ; 
And  that  ourselves  were,  at  the  seventh  hour, 
Caught  in  the  first  beginning  of  the  shower ; 
But  walking,  running,  and  with  much  ado, 
Got  home,  just  time  enough  to  be  wet  through, 
Yet  both  are  well,  and  wondrous  to  be  told, 
Soused  as  we  were,  we  yet  have  caught  no  cold  ; 
And  wishing  just  the  same  good  hap  to  ycu, 
We  say,  good  madam,  and  good  sir,  adieu.    • 

At  a  date  some  two  years  later  than  this,  he  tells 
Newton  that  he  would  as  soon  allow  himself  the 
liberty  of  writing  a  sheet  full  of  trifles  to  one  of 


LETTERS     TO     NEWTON.  213 

the  four  Evangelists,  as  to  him.  But  very  speed- 
ily after  that,  we  find  him  writing  to  the  same 
friend  with  as  much  drollery  as  ever.  The  truth 
is,  he  always  wrote  according  to  the  frame  of  his 
mind  and  feelings  at  the  moment,  and  on  whatever 
topic  the  train  of  association  landed  him  when  put- 
ting pen  to  paper,  on  that  he  wrote  just  what  spon- 
taneously he  thought  and  felt.  The  writing  of 
letters  was  never  irksome  to  him,  though  the  be- 
ginning of  them  sometimes  was.  He  told  Newton 
in  one  of  his  letters  in  1784,  that  the  morning  was 
his  writing  time,  but  in  the  morning  he  had  no 
spirits,  and  therefore  so  much  the  worse  for  his 
correspondents.  "  As  the  evening  approaches,  I 
grow  more  alert,  and  when  I  am  retiring  to  bed, 
am  more  fit  for  mental  occupation  than  at  any 
other  time.  So  it  fares  with  us  whom  they  call 
nervous.  The  watch  is  irregularly  wound  up  ;  it 
goes  in  the  night  when  it  is  not  wanted,  and  in  the 
day  stands  still." 

A  year  previous  to  this,  he  had  been  more  de- 
jected and  distressed  than  usual,  so  much  so,  that 
even  a  visit  from  Newton,  "  the  friend  of  his  heart, 
with  whom  he  had  formerly  taken  sweet  counsel," 
not  only  failed  to  comfort  him,  but  added,  as  he 
said,  the  bitterness  of  mortification  to  the  sadness 
of  despair.  His  nights  were  becoming  a  terror  to 
him,  and  he  told  Newton  that  he  was  more  and 
more  harassed  by  dreams  in  the  night,  and  more 


214  L  E  T  T  E  K  S      T  O      N  E  W  TON. 

deeply  poisoned  by  them  in  the  following  day.  He 
feared  a  return  of  his  malady  in  all  its  force.  "  I 
know  the  ground/'  said  he,  "  before  I  tread  upon 
it.  It  is  hollow  ;  it  is  agitated  ;  it  suffers  shocks 
in  every  direction  ;  it  is  like  the  soil  of  Calabria — 
all  whirlpool  and  undulation."  Happily,  these 
terrible  forebodings  were  not  then  fulfilled  ;  it  was 
not  till  four  years  had  elapsed  that  the  dreaded 
prostration  came  ;  and  his  letters  continued  to  be 
as  cheerful  as  usual.  The  following  to  Newton  in 
1784,  beautifully  shows  what  a  combination  of  en- 
joyment in  the  rural  sights  and  sounds  of  nature, 
and  of  solemn  meditation  on  the  verge  of  what 
seemed  an  eternal  gloom,  at  once  occupied  his 
sensibilities. 

"My  greenhouse  is  never  so  pleasant  as  when 
we  are  just  upon  the  point  of  being  turned  out  of 
it.  The  gentleness  of  the  autumnal  suns,  and  the 
calmness  of  this  latter  season,  make  it  a  much 
more  agreeable  retreat  than  we  ever  find  it  in  the 
summer  ;  when,  the  winds  being  generally  brisk, 
we  can  not  cool  it  by  admitting  a  sufficient  quan- 
tity of  air,  without  being  at  the  same  time  incom- 
moded by  it.  But  now  I  sit  with  all  the  windows 
and  the  door  wide  open,  and  am  regaled  with  the 
scent  of  every  flower,  in  a  garden  as  full  of  flowers 
as  I  have  known  how  to  make  it.  We  keep  no 
bees,  but  if  I  lived  in  a  hive,  I  should  hardly  hear 
more  of  their  music.     All  the  bees  in  the  neighbor- 


RURAL     SOUNDS.  215 

hood  resort  to  a  bed  of  mignionette,  opposite  to 
the  window,  and  pay  me  for  the  honey  they  get 
out  of  it  by  a  hum,  which,  though  rather  monoto- 
nous, is  as  agreeable  to  my  ear  as  the  whistling  of 
my  linnets.  All  the  sounds  that  nature  utters  are 
delightful,  at  least  in  this  country.  I  should  not, 
perhaps,  find  the  roaring  of  lions  in  Africa,  or  of 
bears  in  Russia  very  pleasing,  but  I  know  no  beast 
in  England  whose  voice  I  do  not  account  musical, 
save  and  except  always  the  braying  of  an  ass. 
The  notes  of  all  our  birds  and  fowls  please  me 
without  an  exception.  I  should  not,  indeed,  think 
of  keeping  a  goose  in  a  cage,  that  I  might  hang 
him  up  in  the  parlor  for  the  sake  of  his  melody, 
but  a  goose  upon  a  common  or  in  a  farm-yard  is 
no  bad  performer  ;  and  as  to  insects,  if  the  black 
beetle,  and  beetles  indeed  of  all  hues,  will  keep  out 
of  my  way,  I  have  no  objection  to  any  of  the  rest  : 
on  the  contrary,  in  whatever  key  they  sing,  from 
the  gnat's  fine  treble  to  the  base  of  the  humble 
bee,  I  admire  them  all. 

"  Seriously,  however,  it  strikes  me  as  a  very  ob- 
servable instance  of  Providential  kindness  to  man, 
that  such  an  exact  accord  has  been  contrived  be- 
tween his  ear  and  the  sounds  with  which,  at  least 
in  a  rural  situation,  it  is  almost  every  moment 
visited.  All  the  world  is  sensible  of  the  uncom- 
fortable effect  that  certain  sounds  have  often  upon 
the   nerves,   and   consequently  upon   the   spirits. 


216  RURAL     SOUNDS. 

And  if  a  sinful  world  had  been  filled  with  such  as 
would  have  curdled  the  blood,  and  have  made  the 
sense  of  hearing  a  perpetual  inconvenience,  I  do  not 
know  that  we  should  have  had  a  right  to  complain. 
But  now  the  fields,  the  woods,  the  gardens,  have 
each  their  concert,  and  the  ear  of  man  is  forever 
regaled  by  creatures  who  seem  only  to  please  them- 
selves. Even  the  ears  that  are  deaf  to  the  Gospel 
are  continually  entertained,  though  without  know- 
ing it,  by  sounds  for  which  they  are  solely  indebted 
to  its  Author.  There  is  somewhere  in  infinite 
space  a  world  that  does  not  roll  within  the  pre- 
cincts of  mercy,  and  as  it  is  reasonable,  and 
even  Scriptural  to  suppose  that  there  is  music  in 
heaven,  in  those  dismal  regions  perhaps  the  re- 
verse of  it  is  found  ;  tones  so  dismal  as  to  make 
woe  itself  more  insupportable,  and  to  acuminate 
even  despair.  But  my  paper  admonishes  me  in 
good  time  to  draw  the  reins,  and  to  check  the 
descent  of  my  fancy  into  deeps  with  which  she  is 
but  too  familiar." 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

LADY  AUSTEN'S  SUGGESTION  OP  "  THE  SOFA." — COMPOSITION  OF 
li  THE  TASK;.'' — EXASPERATION'  OF  COWPER'S  GLOOM. — PECULI- 
ARITIES   AND    CAUSES   OF   IT. 

In  the  early  part  of  the  summer  of  1783,  Lady 
Austen  was  endeavoring  to  prevail  upon  Cowper, 
as  she  had  often  done  without  success,  to  try  his 
poetical  powers  in  blank  verse.  At  length  he 
promised  her  that  he  would  do  so,  if  she  would 
furnish  him  with  a  subject.  "  Oh,"  said  she,  "you 
can  write  upon  any  thing  ;  you  can  never  be  in 
want  of  a  subject  ;  write  upon  this  sofa."  This 
answer,  made  without  a  moment's  reflection,  seems 
to  have  fallen  like  a  kindling  element,  suggestive, 
exciting,  into  the  poet's  mind.  Perhaps  it  roused 
up  in  a  moment  a  train  of  domestic  pictures,  asso- 
ciations, enjoyments  :  at  any  rate  it  set  Cowper  to 
thinking,  and  forthwith  he  began  a  poem  on  that 
very  theme,  which  wandered  on,  from  subject  to 
subject,  from  book  to  book,  in  pleasing,  graceful 
variety,  till  it  grew  to  the  form  of  that  finest  pro- 
duction of  his  genius,  "  The  Task,"  one  of  the 

10 


218  COMPOSITION     OF 

most  truly  religious,  yet  one  of  the  most  popular 
poems  in  the  English  language.  The  first  book, 
"  The  Sofa,"  was  completed  in  August  1783,  hav- 
ing been  begun  probably  in  June  ;  and  in  Novem- 
ber 1784,  the  whole  poem  had  gone  to  the  press. 
Cowper  was,  therefore,  engaged  upon  it  about  a 
year  and  three  months.  He  wrote  sometimes  an 
hour  a  day,  sometimes  half  an  hour,  sometimes 
two  hours  ;  and  he  says  that  he  found  it  a  severe 
exercise  to  mould  and  fashion  the  composition  to 
his  mind.  Whether  he  was  engaged  upon  a  seri- 
ous or  comic  subject,  he  has  himself  remarked  that 
the  deep  dejection  of  his  spirits  never  seemed  to 
interfere  in  the  least  degree  with  the  activity  of 
his  mental  powers. 

During  the  whole  period  of  the  composition  of 
this  exquisite  poem,  so  tender  and  sacred  in  feel- 
ing, so  rich  and  heavenly  in  religious  thought,  so 
inspired  at  once  with  the  sweetest  contrition  and 
faith  of  a  submissive  and  believing  heart,  and  the 
sublimest  fervor  of  devotion,  Cowper's  own  religious 
gloom  was  almost  uninterrupted.  He  thought 
himself  shut  out,  by  a  particular  edict,  from  God's 
mercy,  excluded  forever  from  heaven,  and  doomed 
to  destruction.  He  thought  that  for  him  there 
was  no  access  to  the  mercy-seat,  that  he  had  no 
right  to  pray ;  indeed,  he  told  his  friend  Mr.  Bull, 
in  one  of  his  letters,  that  he  had  not  asked  a  bless- 
ing upon  his  food  for  ten  years,  and  did  not  expect 


THE      TASK.  219 

that  he  should  ever  ask  it  again.  "  Prove  to  rne," 
said  he,  "  that  I  have  a  right  to  pray,  and  I  will 
pray  without  ceasing ;  yea,  and  pray  too  even  in 
the  belly  of  tins  hell,  compared  with  which  Jonah's 
was  a  palace,  a  temple  of  the  living  God.  But,  let 
me  add,  there  is  no  encouragement  in  the  Scripture 
so  comprehensive  as  to  include  my  case,  nor  any 
consolation  so  effectual  as  to  reach  it."  "  And  yet 
the  sin  by  which  I  am  excluded  from  the  privi- 
leges I  once  enjoyed,  you  would  account  no  sin  ; 
you  would  tell  me  that  it  was  a  duty." 

In  such  passages  as  these  we  seem  to  be  looking 
into  the  blackness  of  darkness  ;  it  is  an  incompre- 
hensible mystery  of  madness  and  despair.  The 
imaginary  sin  to  which  Cowper  here  refers,  must 
have  been  his  refusing  to  yield  to  the  temptation, 
a  second  time  presented  in  his  insanity,  of  self- 
destruction,  or  his  not  renewing  the  attempt,  when 
mercifully  frustrated  ;  a  temptation  under  the  Sa- 
tanic infernal  delusion  of  its  being  a  sacrifice  to 
which  God  called  him,  so  that  his  not  performing 
it  had  shut  the  door  of  God's  mercy  against  him 
forever.  Sometimes  when  he  sat  down  to  write 
his  dearest  friends,  this  impression,  with  unmiti- 
gated, intolerable  severity,  so  burdened  him,  that 
he  could  write  on  nothing  else  than  the  topic  of 
his  religious  woe.  This  was  very  naturally  the 
case,  most  frequently  in  writing  to  Newton,  with 
whom  he  once  enjoyed  so  many  years  of  brightest, 


220  BURDEN      OF      DESPAIR. 

sweetest  Christian  fellowship,  ineffably  serene  and 
delightful,  the  genuineness,  truth,  and  heavenly 
origin  of  which,  as  the  work  of  the  Divine  Spirit, 
he  never  for  one  moment  doubted. 

He  begins  the  first  letter  he  wrote  to  Newton  in 
the  year  1784,  just  after  the  publication  of  "  The 
Task,"  by  saying  that  he  could  not  indeed  tell 
what  events  might  happen  in  this  new  year  of 
their  existence,  but  that  Newton  might  rest  con- 
vinced that  be  they  what  they  might,  not  one  of 
them  could  ever  come  a  messenger  of  good  to  his 
despairing  lost  friend.  "  It  is  an  alleviation  of  the 
woes  even  of  an  unenlightened  man,  that  he  can 
wish  for  death,  and  indulge  a  hope  at  least  that 
in  death  he  shall  find  deliverance.  But  loaded  as 
my  life  is  with  despair,  I  have  no  such  comfort  as 
would  result  from  a  supposed  probability  of  better 
things  to  come,  were  it  once  ended.  Pass  through 
whatever  difficulties,  dangers  and  afflictions  I  may, 
I  am  not  a  whit  the  nearer  home,  unless  a  dungeon 
may  be  called  so.  This  is  no  very  agreeable  theme  ; 
but  in  so  great  a  dearth  of  subjects  to  write  upon, 
and  especially  impressed  as  I  am  at  this  moment 
with  a  sense  of  my  own  condition,  I  could  choose 
no  other.  The  weather  is  an  exact  emblem  of  my 
mind  in  its  present  state.  A  thick  fog  envelops 
every  thing,  and  at  the  same  time  it  freezes  in- 
tensely. You  will  tell  me  that  this  cold  gloom 
will  be  succeeded  by  a  cheerful  spring,  and  en- 


HABIT      OF      DESPAIR.  221 

deavor  to  encourage  me  to  hope  for  a  spiritual 
change  resembling  it;  but  it  will  be  lost  labor. 
Nature  revives  again  ;  but  a  soul  once  slain,  lives 
no  more.  The  hedge  that  has  been  apparently- 
dead,  is  not  so  ;  it  will  burst  into  leaf  and  blossom 
at  the  appointed  time  ;  but  no  such  time  is  ap- 
pointed for  the  stake  that  stands  in  it.  It  is  as 
dead  as  it  seems,  and  will  prove  itself  no  dissem- 
bler. The  latter  end  of  next  month  will  complete 
a  period  of  eleven  years  in  which  I  have  spoken  no 
other  language.  It  is  a  long  time  for  a  man,  whose 
eyes  were  once  opened,  to  spend  in  darkness  ;  long 
enough  to  make  despair  an  inveterate  habit  ;  and 
such  it  is  in  me.  My  friends,  I  know,  expect  that 
I  shall  see  yet  again.  They  think  it  necessary  to 
the  existence  of  Divine  truth,  that  he  who  once 
had  possession  of  it,  should  never  finally  lose  it.  I 
admit  the  solidity  of  this  reasoning  in  every  case 
but  my  own.  And  why  not  in  my  own  ?  For 
causes  which  to  them  it  appears  madness  to  allege, 
but  which  rest  upon  my  mind  with  a  weight  of 
immovable  conviction." 

This  letter  carries  us  back  for  some  solution  of 
its  gloomy  mystery  to  the  year  1773,  when,  after 
some  recovery  from  the  more  immediate  violence 
of  the  attack,  the  chaos  and  dethronement  of  his 
reason,  even  in  passing  away,  left  upon  the  air  the 
black  shadows  of  an  eclipse,  that  supernatural 
darkness  at  noonday,  that  strange  disastrous  twi- 


222 


ilnl'K     ECLIPSED. 


light,  in  the  prevalence  of  which  the  birds  that 
sing  in  the  day-time  retire  to  their  nests,  but  all 
the  beasts  of  the  forest  begin  to  creep  forth,  and 
the  young  lions  roar  after  their  prey.  In  that 
dread  eclipse  as  to  his  own  personal  hope  of  ac- 
ceptance with  God  and  of  eternal  mercy,  that 
vailing  of  the  light  of  the  Sun  of  Righteousness, 
Cowper's  reason  (but  not  his  affections)  for  the 
most  part  remained  shrouded.  Instead  of  his 
path  being,  in  respect  to  its  brightness  and  seren- 
ity, in  accordance  with  God's  prescribed  rule  and 
promise,  as  the  path  of  the  just,  shining  more  and 
more  unto  the  perfect  day,  the  perfect  day  had 
come  first  with  Cowper,  and  from  that  point  there 
was  a  reversal  of  the  rule,  so  that  the  shadows 
deepened  and  the  gloom  thickened  till  we  lose 
sight  of  the  progress  of  the  saint,  in  the  darkest 
and  most  impenetrable  depths  of  the  valley  of 
death-shadows.  It  was  as  if  he  had  set  out  from 
the  Celestial  City,  and  taken  all  Bunyan's  vivid 
delineations  backward,  from  the  Land  Beulah  to 
the  Valley  of  Humiliation,  and  the  conflict  with 
Apollyon,  and  the  smoke  and  darkness  of  that 
other  dread  valley,  which  proved  to  him  the  Biver 
of  Death,  the  end  of  his  pilgrimage,  the  last  of  his 
gloom  and  sufferings  forever. 

Ever  since  his  attack  in  1773,  the  settled  type 
of  his  derangement  had  been  the  obstinate  assur- 
ance   that  his  own   name   was  blotted  from  the 


SUBMISSION.  223 

Book  of  Life.  During  that  attack,  he  was  at  first 
unwilling  to  enter  Newton's  door  ;  but  one  day 
having  been  persuaded  to  make  him  a  visit,  he 
suddenly  determined  there  to  stay,  and  accord- 
ingly remained  under  Newton's  care,  in  Newton's 
family,  about  eighteen  months,  when  quite  as  sud- 
denly he  came  to  the  determination  to  return. 
Newton  has  described  his  submissiveness  to  God's 
will  in  an  early  period  of  this  attack,  in  strong  and 
affecting  lanoTiasre.  "  In  the  beginning;  of  his  dis- 
order/'  says  Newton,  "  when  he  was  more  capable 
of  conversing  than  ho  was  sometimes  afterward, 
how  often  have  I  heard  him  adore  and  submit  to 
the  sovereignty  of  God,  and  declare,  though  in  the 
most  agonizing  and  inconceivable  distress,  that  he 
was  so  perfectly  satisfied  of  the  wisdom  and  recti- 
tude of  the  Lord's  appointments,  that  if  he  was 
sure  of  relieving  himself  only  by  stretching  out  his 
hand,  he  would  not  do  it,  unless  he  was  equally 
sure  it  was  agreeable  to  His  will  that  he  should 
do  it/'  The  same  spirit  of  entire  submission  to 
God's  will  marked  all  the  changes  of  his  delirium. 
In  October  he  attempted  suicide,  under  the  dread- 
ful impression  that  this  was  the  Divine  will  made 
known  for  his  obedience.  The  turn  which  his 
malady  thus  took  was  entirely  unexpected,  and  it 
rendered  the  most  incessant  watchfulness  abso- 
lutely necessary.  That  was  while  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Newton  were  absent  in  Warwickshire  ;  but  New- 


224  DREAD     DELUSION. 

ton  has  remarked  that  this  very  attempt  at  self- 
destruction  was  but  a  new  form  and  proof  of  his 
dear  friend's  submission  to  God's  will,  "since  it 
was  solely  owing  to  the  power  the  Enemy  had  of 
impressing  upon  his  distorted  imagination  that  it 
was  the  will  of  God  that  he  should,  after  the  ex- 
ample of  Abraham,  perform  an  expressive  act  of 
obedience,  and  offer  not  a  son  but  himself." 

That  impression  always  remained  by  him,  or 
rather  the  belief  that  he  had  forfeited  God's 
mercy,  and  shut  himself  out  from  hope  and  heaven 
by  not  executing  the  will  of  Jehovah  when  it  was 
made  known  to  him,  and  the  appointed  opportu- 
nity had  come.  By  letting  that  opportunity  pass, 
he  thought  he  had  brought  upon  himself  a  per- 
petual exclusion  from  God's  favor.  For  a  long 
time  he  thought  that  even  to  implore  mercy  would 
be  just  opposing  the  determinate  counsel  of  God. 
It  was  a  state  of  mind  that  increased  the  anxiety 
of  his  friends  in  every  recurrence  of  his  disease, 
and  tried  their  care  and  tenderness  to  the  utter- 
most. In  1787,  during  the  dreadful  attack  of 
several  months'  duration,  he  again  attempted  his 
own  death,  and  would  certainly  have  accomplished 
it,  if  Mrs.  Unwin  had  not  been  providentially  di- 
rected to  the  room  where  he  had  just  suspended 
himself  by  the  neck,  and  where  he  must  have  died 
in  a  few  moments,  had  he  not  been  instantly  res- 
cued.    From  this  last  attack   he  recovered  sud- 


DREAD      DELUSION.  226 

denly,  without  warning,  like  a  man  called  at  a 
word  from  death  to  life  ;  and  no  similar  access 
ever  took  place,  but  soon  after  the  year  1790  the 
gloom  and  dejection  of  spirits  deepened  from  month 
to  month  into  a  thicker  darkness  and  more  painful 
distress. 

"  Amid  these  dreadful  temptations,"  says  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Greatheed,  who  knew  him  intimately, 
and  after  his  death  published  some  account  of  his 
trials,  with  'an  interesting  review  of  his  life  and 
character,  "  such  was  his  unshaken  submission  to 
what  he  imagined  to  be  the  Divine  pleasure,  that 
he  was  accustomed  to  say,  *  If  holding  up  my  fin- 
ger would  save  me  from  endless  torments,  I  would 
not  do  it  against  the  will  of  God/  He  never  dared 
to  enter  a  place  of  worship  when  invited  to  do  so  ; 
he  has  said,  '  Had  I  the  universe,  I  would  give  it 
to  go  with  you  ;  but  I  dare  not  do  it  against  the 
will  of  God  {' " 

Sad  sufferer  under  a  delusion  that  seemed  to  set 
the  very  attributes  and  commandments  of  God 
against  one  another  !  We  do  not  wonder  that 
Newton  and  Mrs.  Unwin,  and  his  strongest-minded 
and  most  religious  friends  spoke  of  it  and  regarded 
it  as  the  power  of  the  enemy.  With  the  New  Tes- 
tament before  them,  what  could  seem  a  more  pal- 
pable and  graphic  renewal  of  those  malignant, 
infernal  possessions  which  drew  the  compassion  of 
our  Saviour,  and  required  the  exercise  of  His  om- 
10* 


226 


M  E  RCY      I  N      T  RIAL. 


nipotence.  "  Whom  Satan  hath  bound,  lo,  these 
thirteen  years  !"  Justly  did  they  reason  and  be- 
lieve that  something  more  than  a  natural  power 
was  here  at  work,  and  that  only  a  supernatural 
interposition  could  effect  a  cure.  Sad  sufferer  ! 
yet  not  so  sad  as  happy,  being  under  the  care  of 
God  ;  for  He  was  with  thee  though  thou  knewest 
it  not.  When  my  spirit  was  overwhelmed  within 
me,  then  Thou  knewest  my  path  !  Happy,  since 
He  who  suffered  thee  to  be  thus  tempted  was  able 
to  save  thee  to  the  uttermost,  was  refining  thee  for 
greater  usefulness,  and  was  preparing  for  thee,  out 
of  this  exceeding  weight  of  trial,  a  far  more  exceed- 
ing and  eternal  weight  of  glory  ! 

Xow  and  then  Cowper  would  utter  in  his  letters 
to  his  friends  some  sweet  impressive  sentiments, 
speaking  of  the  sufferings  of  others,  which  are  ap- 
plicable with  peculiar  power  and  beauty  to  his  own 
case.  How  simple  and  touching  the  following 
words  in  regard  to  a  lovely  young  person  of  unob- 
trusive, but  genuine  Christian  grace  and  worth, 
that  had  just  passed  away  !  u  The  world  has  its 
objects  of  admiration,  and  God  has  objects  of  his 
love.  Those  make  a  noise  and  perish  ;  and  these 
weep  silently  for  a  short  season,  and  then  live  for- 
ever." 


CHAPTER    XIX. 

COOPER'S  CHRISTIAN  GRACES  BLOOMING  IN  MID-WINTER. — DEPTH 
AND  REALITY  OF  HIS  PIETY  PROVED  EY  HIS  GLOOM. — ASSAULT 
OF  COTVPERS  ADVERSARY. — INFERNAL  CONFLICTS. — INVISIBLE 
GRACE. — COWFER'S  GREAT  ENJOYMENT  IN  POETICAL  COMPOSITION. 

It  was  a  painfully  vivid  image  with  which  Cow- 
per  conveyed  his  mental  state,  when  he  said  that 
a  thick  fog  enveloped  the  landscape,  and  at  the 
same  time  it  was  freezing  intensely.  Again  and 
again  we  find  ourselves  inquiring,  how  could  his 
affections  continue  so  warm,  so  ardent,  so  benevo- 
lent, his  interest  so  unabated  in  every  good  thing, 
his  sympathy  for  others'  woes  so  tender,  and  his 
grateful  appreciation  of  the  kindness  of  others  so 
constant,  his  sensibilities  undiminished  to  the  last, 
and  his  feelings  of  admiration  and  love,  susceptible 
of  new  friendships  with  congenial  natures  late  in 
life  ?  His  power  of  attraction  over  others  was  al- 
most a  fascination  ;  and  the  frankness  and  cordial 
sincerity  with  which  he  took  the  new  young  friends 
to  his  heart,  whom  Providence  ordained  to  meet 
and  bless  him  on  his  lonely  way  were  among  the 
most  delightful  exhibitions  of  his  nature.    His  own 


228  G  B  B  1  S  T  I  A  N      GRACES 

misery  never  made  liiui  misanthropic,  but  right 
the  contrary  ;  for  he  was  both  grateful  for  his  own 
blessings  and  joyful  in  the  happiness  of  all  around 
him. 

"  The  principal  pleasure,  indeed,"  remarks  Mr. 
Greatheed,  "  that  Cowper  appeared  to  be  capable 
of  receiving,  was  that  which  he  derived  from  the 
happiness  of  others.  Instead  of  being  provoked  to 
discontent  and  envy,  by  contrasting  their  comforts 
with  his  own  afflictions,  there  evidently  was  not  a 
benefit  which  he  knew  to  be  enjoyed  by  others 
which  did  not  afford  him  sensible  satisfaction  ;  not 
a  suffering  they  endured  which  did  not  add  to  his 
pain.  To  the  happiness  of  those  who  were  priv- 
ileged with  opportunities  of  showing  their  esteem 
for  him,  he  was  most  tenderly  alive.  The  advance- 
ment of  the  knowledge  of  Christ  in  the  world  at 
large  was  always  near  his  heart,  and  whatever  con- 
cerned the  general  welfare  of  mankind  was  inter- 
esting to  him,  secluded  as  he  was  from  the  public, 
and,  in  common,  from  religious  society.  In  like 
manner,  from  his  distant  retreat  he  viewed  with 
painful  sensations  the  progress  of  infidelity  and  of 
sin  in  every  shape.  His  love  to  God,  though  un- 
assisted by  a  hope  of  Divine  favor,  was  invariably 
manifested  by  an  abhorrence  of  every  thing  he 
thought  dishonorable  to  the  Most  High,  and  a  de- 
light in  all  that  tended  to  His  glory/' 

Unassisted  by  a  hope  of  the  Divine  favor  !    This 


B  L  U  Q  ii  1  N  G     I  :>       V  I  N  TER,  22U 

makes  the  continued  development  of  Oowper'a 
piety  most  wonderful.  Here  was  the  bush  burn- 
ing but  not  consumed.  Here  was  the  faith  of 
submission,  reverence,  and  love,  glorifying  God  in 
the  fires  as  truly,  and  with  a  martyr's  endurance, 
as  was  ever  manifested  in  the  fiery  furnace.  And 
here  was,  not  less  manifestly,  a  form  like  unto  the 
Son  of  God,  though  here  His  presence  was  known 
only  in  the  patience  and  meekness  of  the  sufferer, 
and  not  in  the  radiance  of  a  visible  shape.  Yet  it 
was  Divine  grace,  nothing  less  and  nothing  else, 
that  was  shining.  And  if  ever  in  one  case  more 
remarkably  than  in  another,  John  Bunyan's  beau- 
tiful imagery  presented  by  his  Interpreter  was  ful- 
filled, it  was  in  Cowper's.  "  I  saw  in  my  dream 
that  the  Interpreter  took  Christian  by  the  hand, 
and  led  him  into  a  place  where  was  a  fire  burning 
against  a  wall,  and  one  standing  by  it,  always  cast- 
ing much  water  upon  it  to  quench  it ;  yet  did  the 
fire  burn  higher  and  hotter."  On  the  side  where 
the  malignant  devil  is  pouring  the  torrent  on  the 
soul,  you  can  not  see  the  Lord  Jesus  pouring  in 
the  oil  of  Divine  grace  ;  yet  the  invisible  work  is 
the  strongest,  and  the  Lord  is  the  conqueror.  "  I 
will  cool  you  yet,"  said  Satan,  "  though  I  take 
seven  years  to  do  it ;  you  are  very  hot  after  Mercy 
now,  but  you  shall  be  cool  enough  by  and  by." 
So  thought  the  infernal  adversary,  when  permitted 
to  set  himself  against  this  child  of  God,  at  the 


230 


I  N  y  EB  N  A  L     1)  1:  L  U  SION. 


very  time  when  his  combined  piety  and  genius 
were  beginning  to  put  forth  those  precious  blos- 
soms and  fruits  that  were  to  prove  like  leaves  of 
the  tree  of  life  for  the  healing  of  the  nations. 

And  the  ingredient  he  was  permitted  to  mingle 
in  that  torrent  of  temptation  with  which  he  would 
fain  have  overwhelmed  Cowper,  and  utterly  extin- 
guished the  bright  fire  that  was  burning,  the  in- 
gredient with  which  he  hoped  to  persuade  him,  as 
he  once  hoped  in  regard  to  Job,  to  curse  God  and 
die,  was  the  terrible  imagination  that  he  was  cut 
off  forever  from  God's  favor,  that  God  had  forgot- 
ten to  be  gracious,  and  that  His  mercy  was  clean 
gone  for  evermore.  If  he  could  persuade  him  to 
despair,  he  thought  he  was  sure  of  his  victim.  For 
we  are  saved  by  hope,  and  the  sanctifying  power 
of  faith  acts  always  with  victorious  efficacy,  only 
through  the  might  of  faith's  watchword,  by  the 
earnest  of  the  Spirit  in  the  heart,  looking  unto 
Jesus,  and  exclaiming,  "  Who  loved  me,  and  gave 
Himself  for  me!"     And  though 


The  vital  savor  of  His  name 
Restores  our  fainting  breath, 


yet  if  a  personal  distrust  can  be  made  to  take  the 
place  of  confidence  in  Jesus, 


Such  unbelief  perverts  the  same 
To  guilt,  despair,  and  death. 


W  0  R  K      0  F      Til  B      T  E  M  P  TER.  231 

Now  this  delusion  of  Cowper,  that  he  was  cut 
off  forever  from  God's  mercy,  was  certainly  from 
below,  not  from  above,  the  work  of  an  Enemy,  not 
of  a  Friend  ;  yet  even  the  practical  power  of  that 
delusion,  and  the  result  on  which  Satan  had  relied, 
could  be  prevented  by  the  omnipotence  of  God's 
invisible  grace.  And  if  Cowper  could  have  been 
carried  by  the  Interpreter  to  the  other  side  of  the 
emblem,  to  behold  the  Divine  Kedeemer  secretly 
but  continually  pouring  in  the  oil  of  Divine  grace, 
to  maintain  the  heavenly  fire,  then  the  secret  of 
the  mystery  of  God's  dealings  with  him  would 
have  been  known  beforehand.  He  was  bringing 
the  blind  by  a  way  that  they  knew  not.  And  if 
Cowper  did  not  know,  the  angelic  guardians — they 
that  wait  and  watch  ministering  unto  them  who 
shall  be  heirs  of  salvation — must  have  known  God's 
way,  as  they  maintained  for  him  this  spiritual  con- 
flict, and  must  have  heard  the  voice  saying,  "  My 
grace  is  sufficient  for  thee  ;  My  strength  shall 
be  made  perfect  in  thy  weakness." 

So,  said  the  Interpreter,  "  by  means  of  the  oil  of 
Christ's  grace,  notwithstanding  what  the  devil  can 
do,  the  souls  of  His  people  prove  gracious  still. 
And  in  that  thou  sawest  that  the  man  stood  be- 
hind the  wall  to  maintain  the  fire,  this  is  to  teach 
thee  that  it  is  hard  for  the  tempted  to  see  how 
this  work  of  grace  is  maintained  in  the  soul/'  And 
hard  indeed  it  was  for  Cowper  to  see  ;  yet  still  the 


232  BUfiMI0SIO¥. 

work  went  on  ;  and  though  by  the  messenger  of 
Satan  he  was  not  only  buffeted,  but  distressed, 

7  7 

perplexed,  and  in  despair,  yet  was  he  not  forsak- 
en ;  cast  down  he  was,  yet  not  destroyed  ;  and 
though  seemingly  always  delivered  unto  death, 
yet  the  life  that  is  hid  with  Christ  in  God  was  al- 
ways manifest.  He  whom  it  pleased  and  became 
to  make  the  Captain  of  his  saints  perfect  through 
suffering,  in  bringing  many  sons  unto  glory,  passes 
the  children  of  light  also  through  many  scenes  of 
trial  and  of  darkness.  And  Cowper  certainly  was 
one  of  those  sons  brought  unto  glory  in  the  same 
way. 

Under  this  extreme  severity  of  discipline,  per- 
mitted as  Cowper  was,  to  be  sifted  as  wheat  by 
Satan,  to  be  driven  by  the  wind  and  tossed,  to  be 
distracted  with  frightful  dreams  in  the  night-time, 
and  stared  at  and  terrified  by  a  stony-eyed  fiend  in 
the  day-time,  the  projection  and  creation  of  an  in- 
ward sullen  despair ;  permitted  to  be  held  in  this 
torturing  and  frightful  misapprehension  of  the  Di- 
vine sovereignty  in  relation  to  himself,  till  he  be- 
came as  a  withered  and  wrinkled  goat-skin  bottle 
in  the  smoke,  till  his  very  bones  became  as  when 
one  cutteth  and  eleaveth  wood  upon  the  earth  ; 
yet  all  the  while  submissive  to  the  Divine  will,  and 
in  his  melancholy  misery,  unselfish  and  unrepining 
to  the  last ;  under  such  discipline  there  would 
really  seem  to  have  been  in  Cowper's  gloomy  and 


DESERTION.  283 

despairing  experiences  more  true  piety  than  in 
many  persons'  confidences  and  hopes ;  for  his 
heart  was  filled  all  the  while  with  a  yearning  after 
God  and  the  light  of  His  countenance,  as  the  only 
relief  and  blessing  which  his  soul  desired.  If  any 
man  could  ever  adopt  Watts's  energetic  stanza  as 
the  expression  of  his  own  feelings,  Cowper  could  ; 

Thy  shining  grace  can  cheer 

The  prison  where  I  dwell ; 
'Tis  Paradise  if  Thou  art  here, 

If  Thou  depart,  'tis  hell  I 

He  could  not  he  happy  without  God.  He  was 
unutterably  miserable  in  the  bare  imagination  that 
God  had  deserted  him.  The  thought  that  God 
had  forsaken  him  was  more  agonizing  to  him  than 
a  world  of  real  miseries,  temporal  and  not  spiritual, 
ever  could  have  been.  But  even  beneath  such  a 
nightmare,  such  an  agony,  as  the  supposition  of 
this  abandonment  by  his  best  and  only  everlasting 
Friend,  he  would  not,  knowingly,  for  the  universe, 
have  gone  in  any  respect  contrary  to  the  will  of 
that  Friend  ;  would  not  have  chosen  his  own  way 
in  any  thing  which  he  might  not  feel  was  God's 
chosen  way,  or  which  he  apprehended  was  contrary 
to  God's  will.  Now  a  more  convincing  and  affect- 
ing proof  that  he  was  a  child  of  God,  though 
walking  in  darkness,  can  hardly  be  imagined  than 
this.     He  could  have  stayed  himself,  according  to 


234 


A  B  A  N  1)  o  N  M  ):  N    J' 


the  direction  given  in  the  fiftieth  chapter  of  Isaiah 
to  those  who  find  themselves  "walking  in  darkness 
and  without  light,  upon  the  name  of  the  Lord ; 
but  the  terrible  point,  the  unconquerable  fatality 
of  his  delusion  was,  that  the  very  name  of  the 
Lord  was  against  him,  and  that  consistency  and 
truth  on  the  part  of  God  toward  His  own  attri- 
butes required  Cowper's  destruction.  We  do  not 
remember  ever  to  have  met  with  any  other  precisely 
sueh  case  on  record  ;  for  Cowper  would  reason 
himself  into  a  demonstration  on  this  point,  and 
sometimes  would  unwind,  to  the  astonishment  and 
compassion  of  sympathizing  friends,  a  portion  of 
the  chain  of  argument  by  which  his  soul  was  thus 
fettered  ;  he  sets  the  door  ajar,  and  lets  you  look 
into  the  darkness  of  his  prison  ;  and  though  at  the 
same  time  he  sees  the  light,  it  is  no  light  for  him. 
The  atmosphere  of  Divine  mercy  is  all  around  him, 
but  there  is  a  vacuum  also  between  his  sonl  and 
it,  so  that,  as  he  conceives,  it  can  not  touch  him, 
and  the  congruity  of  God's  attributes  forbids  that 
it  should. 

Water!  water:  cverv  where, 
And  never  a  drop  to  drink! 


The  ladder  even  of  Christian  experience,  Cowper 
once  said,  has  its  foot,  its  lowest  rung,  in  the 
abyss  ;  and  there  he  had  stood,  if  any  step  above 
the  infernal  regions,  yet  only  there,  on  that  lowest 


0  KB  E  A  L  I  T  V  .  235 

round,  amid  the  smoke  and  horror  of  thick  dark- 
ness, accustomed  only  to  infernal  experiences,  for 
thirteen  years  !  If  this  had  been  reality,  it  had 
been  intolerable  misery  ;  if  it  had  been  the  mid- 
night of  absolute  despair,  it  must  have  produced 
lute  madness.  But  it  was  a  delusion,  and  not 
unaccompanied  with  some  suspicions,  and  some- 
times actual  hopes,  of  its  being  such,  and  there- 
fore it  could  be  borne  for  a  season.  It  had  the 
unreality,  yet  at  the  same  time  the  despotic  op- 
pression, of  a  vivid  dream. 

It  was  the  hallucination  of  a  mind  insane  on 
one  idea,  perfectly  sound  on  every  other.  That 
one  was  indeed,  in  this  case,  a  tremendous  despot- 
ism, extending  over  Cowper's  everlasting  destiny 
(as  he  imagined)  a  certainty  and  immutability  of 
woe.  If  it  were  a  reality,  instead  of  an  imagina- 
tion, and /eft  as  a  reality,  it  would  leave  no  inter- 
val for  cheerful  occupation,  it  would  permit  no 
beguilement  of  its  horror,  nor  forgetfulness  of  such 
a  fate.  But  it  was  an  imaginary  despair  ;  and 
though  the  mental  dejection,  along  with  the  nerv- 
ous derangement  which  was  its  physical  cause, 
deepened  and  darkened  even  to  the  end,  yet  the 
misery  of  an  absolute  despair  never  could  be  in- 
flicted by  it,  nor  ever  was  endured  under  it.  With 
congenial  mental  occupation,  gentle,  tender,  sym- 
pathizing friends,  and  a  heart  submissive,  even  in 
its  darkest  midnight  mood,  to  God's  will,  Cowper 


236  PBBSOVAL     1  X  T  E  B  E  8  T 

enjoyed  much  ;  though  as  often  as  his  attention 
reverted  to  that  one  point  of  his  insanity,  and  be- 
came fixed  upon  it,  all  his  sensibilities  seemed 
transfixed  and  agonized  there,  and  he  could  see 
and  feel  nothing  but  misery. 

Nevertheless,  the  general  tone  of  his  correspond- 
ence, his  life,  and  his  writings,  up  to  a  very  late 
period,  was  cheerful.  "  The  Task,"  though  writ- 
ten throughout  beneath  that  intensely  freezing 
vail  of  gloom  which  he  describes,  is  yet  a  cheerful 
poem  ;  neither  joy  nor  frost  is  admitted  in  it  to 
your  sensibility  or  perception.  A  tender  melan- 
choly runs  through  it  indeed  ;  a  pensiveness,  deeply 
touching,  and  sometimes  sad,  but  nothing  of  gloom. 
There  is  deep  pathos,  but  yet  a  heavenly  hope. 
Fountains  of  the  purest  happiness  are  opened  up 
in  it,  of  which  you  feel  perfectly  assured  that  the 
writer  must  himself  have  deeply  tasted  ;  and  scenes 
of  delight  and  of  sweet,  heart-felt  enjoyment  are 
presented,  of  which  you  know  that  the  poet  him- 
self must  have  been  a  living  part. 

Indeed  there  is  not  a  poem  in  the  English  lan- 
guage that  carries  deeper  conviction,  or  bears  more 
indisputable,  irresistible  evidence  of  having  sprung, 
In  every  part,  from  the  original  experience  of  the 
author.  It  is  he  himself,  his  own  thoughts,  feel- 
ings, wishes,  manners,  habits,  tastes,  enjoyments, 
present  with  you,  and  you  can  not  mistake  him  for 
a  miserable  man.     He  is  indeed  a  man  of  trials  : 


OF     THE      TASK.  287 

that  is  evident ;  he  has  seen  affliction,  is  beneath 
its  sacred  chastising  influence  even  now,  and  is, 
like  his  beloved  Master,  "  a  man  of  sorrows  and 
acquainted  with  grief."  And  yet,  he  is  on  the 
whole,  and  in  the  highest  sense,  a  happy  man. 
You  can  not  help  feeling  that  the  mind  that  from 
the  treasures  of  its  own  experience,  and  the  heart 
that  from  the  fountain  of  its  own  emotions,  could 
draw  forth  these  rich  and  beautiful  realities  and 
forms  of  sacred  thought  and  feeling,  and  take  de- 
light in  their  array,  must  belong  not  only  to  a 
heavenly  but  a  happy  being. 

And  this  indeed  was  the  real  circle  of  Cowper's 
existence  ;  here  was  his  own  mansion,  with  its 
heavenly  furniture  and  guests  ;  the  other  mood  of 
his  insanity  was  a  separate  dark  cell,  whither  his 
heart  never  entered.  His  despair  was  the  tyranny 
of  a  diseased  reason  ;  a  compulsion,  unnatural  and 
strange,  upon  his  whole  being ;  but  his  devout 
thoughts,  his  religious  feelings,  his  submission  to 
God's  will,  his  social  sympathies,  enjoyments,  dis- 
interestedness, affectionate  and  sweet  temper,  were 
the  habit  of  his  disposition,  his  character,  his  na- 
ture. Hence  in  one  of  his  letters  to  his  friend 
Unwin  he  says  that  he  never  wrote  any  thing  at 
second  hand  in  his  life  ;  all  the  web  and  woof  of 
his  poetry  was  out  of  his  own  experience,  what  he 
had  himself  thought,  felt,  believed,  meditated,  suf- 
fered, enjoyed  ;  all  native,  all  original.     In  refer- 


238  PERSONAL     INTEREST. 

ence  to  his  first  poetical  volume,  lie  said  to  the 
same  friend,  "  I  know  there  is  in  the  book  that 
wisdom  which  cometh  from  above,  because  it  was 
from  above  that  1  received  it.  May  they  receive 
it  too  !  For  whether  they  drink  it  out  of  the  cis- 
tern, or  whether  it  falls  upon  them  immediately 
from  the  clouds,  as  it  did  on  me,  it  is  all  one.  It 
is  the  water  of  life,  which  whosoever  drinketh  shall 
thirst  no  more." 

Perhaps  it  may  be  set  down  as  a  ruling  distinc- 
tion between  imaginary  and  real  despair,  that 
whereas  the  first  may  co-exist  with  seasons  of 
much  cheerfulness,  and  march  together  sometimes 
with  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides,  the  latter  can 
never  admit  a  sportive  humor,  or  give  way  to  the 
influence  of  playfulness  or  wit,  though  it  come  in 
the  most  irresistible  form  ever  put  on  by  innocent 
and  harmless  gayety.  Bunyan  has  drawn  a  pic- 
ture of  the  Man  of  Despair,  whose  soul  you  would 
no  more  dream  of  enlivening  with  a  sunbeam,  or 
winning  to  the  beauty  of  a  smile  by  merriment  or 
jest,  than  of  beguiling  the  anguish  of  the  lost  by 
the  harp  of  David.  But  in  Cowper's  mind,  Despair 
and  Wit,  Melancholy  and  delightful  Humor,  went 
hand  in  hand,  weeping  and  laughing  at  each  other. 
In  one  and  the  same  letter  he  would  write  such  a 
description  of  his  gloom  and  anguish,  as  would 
make  the  reader  weep  with  sympathy,  or  stand  in 
solemn  awe.  profoundly  wondering,  as  before  God's 


LETTERS     TO     NEWTON.  239 

most  inscrutable  judgments  ;  and  before  the  close, 
he  would  give  you  a  thought,  an  incident,  a  sen- 
tence, or  a  melody,  of  such  exquisite  and  sportive 
pleasantry,  that  the  sight  is  more  original  and  lovely 
than  that  of  the  fragrant  flowers  that  hang  blos- 
soming and  smiling  on  the  edge  of  a  glacier. 
Thus  the  two  halves  of  the  same  letter  seem  some- 
times the  presence  or  the  likeness  of  two  separate 
beings. 

In  one  of  his  striking  letters  to  Newton  he  says, 
"  You  complain  of  that  crowd  of  trifling  thoughts 
that  pester  you  without  ceasing  ;  but  then  you 
always  have  a  serious  thought  standing  at  the  door 
of  your  imagination,  like  a  justice  of  peace  with 
the  riot-act  in  his  hand,  ready  to  read  it  and  dis- 
perse the  mob.  Here  lies  the  difference  between 
you  and  me.  My  thoughts  are  clad  in  a  sober 
livery,  for  the  most  part  as  grave  as  that  of  a  bish- 
op's servants.  They  turn  too  upon  spiritual  sub- 
jects, but  the  tallest  fellow,  and  the  loudest  among 
them  all,  is  he  who  is  continually  crying,  with  a 
loud  voice,  Actum  est  de  te  ;  periisti."  This  same 
letter  he  concludes  with  a  series  of  sportive  rhymes 
by  way  of  a  message  to  Mrs.  Newton  in  regard  to 
some  proposed  domestic  purchases. 

Cocoa-nut  naught, 

Fish  too  dear, 
None  must  be  bought 

For  us  that  are  here. 


240  r L  A  Y  F  r  L  N  E S S     OF 

Xo  lobster  on  earth, 

That  ever  I  saw, 
To  me  would  be  worth 

Sixpence  a  claw. 
So  dear  madam  wait 

Till  fish  can  be  got 
At  a-reas'nable  rate, 

Whether  lobster  or  not. 
Till  the  French  and  the  Dutch 

Have  quitted  the  seas, 
4aid  then  send  as  much, 

And  as  oft  as  you  please. 


And  yet,  in  another  letter  to  Newton  he  says, 
"  I  wonder  that  a  sportive  thought  should  ever 
knock  at  the  door  of  my  intellect,  and  still  more 
that  it  should  gain  admittance.  It  is  as  if  a  harle- 
quin should  intrude  himself  into  the  gloomy  cham- 
ber where  a  corpse  is  deposited  in  state.  His  antic 
gesticulations  would  he  unseasonable  at  any  rate, 
but  more  especially  so,  if  they  should  distort  the 
features  of  the  mournful  attendants  into  laughter. 
But  the  mind,  long  wearied  with  the  sameness  of 
a  dull,  dreary  prospect,  wTill  gladly  fix  its  eyes  on 
any  thing  that  may  make  a  little  variety  in  its 
contemplations,  though  it  were  but  a  kitten  play- 
ing with  her  tail." 

But  here  it  is  to  be  remarked  that  in  fact  what 
renders  the  humor  of  Cowper  so  delightful  is,  that 
it  is  neither  forced  nor  boisterous,  neither  put  on 
for  effect  nor  resorted  to  for  provoking  laughter 
either  in  himself  or  others  ;  but  it  is  manifestly  a 


cowper's    humor.  241 

native  permeating  clement,  from  a  deep  living  sa- 
lient spring  in  his  being  ;  a  vein  running  through 
the  whole  empire  of  his  mind  and  heart  like  a 
brook  in  green  pastures.  The  sportive  flashes  of 
his  wit  are  as  native,  genuine  and  playful,  as  artless 
and  unpremeditated,  as  the  serenest  expressions  of 
his  piety  are  sincere,  profound  and  thoughtful ; 
and  both  are  as  spontaneous  as  the  rich  droppings 
of  a  full  honey-comb.  The  playfulness  of  Cowper, 
not  being  assumed,  but  really  omnipresent  and 
irresistible,  had  a  native  sweetness  and  power  that, 
except  in  the  intervals  of  real,  despotic,  overwhelm- 
ing insanity,  gained  the  victory  over  his  gloom  ;  nor 
was  he  at  any  time  so  utterly  miserable  as  he  con- 
ceived himself  to  be. 

Meantime,  the  lessons  of  his  affliction  were  never 
forgotten  by  him ;  he  felt  deeply  his  dependence 
upon  Grod  for  every  breath  of  his  genius.  There 
was  this  difference,  he  saiJ,  between  the  generality 
of  poets  and  himself ;  "  they  have  been  ignorant 
how  much  they  stood  indebted  to  an  Almighty 
power  for  the  exercise  of  those  talents  they  have 
supposed  their  own  ;  whereas  I  know,  and  know 
most  perfectly,  and  am,  perhaps,  to  be  taught  it 
to  the  last,  that  my  power  to  think,  whatever  it 
be,  and  consequently  my  power  to  comjjose,  is  as 
much  as  my  outward  power  afforded  to  me  by  the 
same  hand  that  makes  me  in  any  respect  to  differ 
from  a  brute.  This  lesson,  if  not  constantly  incul- 
11 


242 


COWPER'h      EN  J  O  Y  M  ENT 


cated,  might,  perhaps,  be  forgotten,  or  at  least  too 
slightly  remembered." 

Thus  it  was  that  Cowper  never  wrote  with  wea- 
riness, never  but  with  pleasure,  never  except  spon- 
taneously ;  and  this  was  a  great  source  and  secret 
of  his  success.  He  said  himself  that  there  were 
times  when  he  was  no  more  of  a  poet  than  he  was 
a  mathematician,  but  at  other  times  it  seemed  as 
easy  for  him  to  pour  forth  the  sweetest  thoughts 
and  feelings,  in  the  sweetest,  simplest  style,  as  for 
a  child  to  breathe.  He  once  said  to  his  friend 
Unwin,  as  also  to  Lady  Hesketh,  that  he  was  so 
formed  as  to  be,  in  regard  to  pleasure  and  pain,  in 
extremes  ;  whatever  gave  him  any  pleasure  gave 
him  much  ;  and  he  enjoyed  much  in  the  work  of 
composition.  It  was  an  amusement  that  carried 
him  away  from  himself ;  or  rather  it  transported 
him  from  his  gloomy  self  to  his  radiant  and  hope- 
ful self  under  the  light  of  heaven  ;  from  the  expe- 
rience of  an  imagined  despair  to  that  region  of 
heavenly  experience  taught  of  God,  amid  thoughts 
of  the  richest  wisdom,  and  feelings  kindling  with 
the  theme  ;  emotions  grateful,  devout,  affection- 
ate, crowding  forth  from  the  opened  doors  of  that 
life  hid  with  Christ  in  God,  before  which,  at  other 
times,  despair  kept  such  gloomy  and  forbidding 
watch,  that  there  was  no  access  to  it,  no  commu- 
nion with  it.  The  labor  of  his  authorship  on  heav- 
enly themes  was  as  the  work  of  those  who,  passing 


IN     COMPOSITION.  243 

through  the  Valley  of  Baca,  make  it  a  well ;  it  was 
like  Isaac's  labor  in  digging  the  wells  which  the 
Philistines  in  their  malignity  had  filled  and  sealed 
up  with  dirt  and  stones  ;  and  in  its  happy  result  to 
himself,  it  was  as  a  hand  Divine  reached  down  to 
draw  him  up  from  an  abyss  of  wretchedness.  "  The 
quieting  and  composing  effect  of  it,"  he  told  New- 
ton, "  was  such,  and  so  totally  absorbed  have  I  some- 
times been  in  my  rhyming  occupation,  that  neither 
the  past  nor  the  future  (those  themes  which  to  me 
are  so  fruitful  in  regret  at  other  times)  had  any 
longer  a  share  in  my  contemplation." 

This  was  just  because,  in  meditating  on  these 
sweet  celestial  themes,  he  had  retreated  from  the 
mob  of  accusing  and  despairing,  tumultuous 
thoughts  into  that  holy  of  holies,  where  his  life  was 
in  a  double  sense  hid  with  Christ  in  God.  He  stole 
away  gradually,  by  such  delightful  occupation,  from 
his  own  despair,  and  the  Enemy  found  there  was 
one  secret  recess  which  he  could  not  enter,  one 
pavilion  where  God  could  hide  the  troubled  wan- 
derer from  the  strife  of  tongues. 


CHAPTER    XX 


TENOR  OF  COWPER  S  LIFE  AND  EMPLOYMENTS. — THE  IDLE  AND  THE 
BUSY  MAN. — TRANSLATION  OF  HOMER, — HIS  ACCOUNT  OF  THIS 
WORK   TO   NEWTON. 


In  the  year  1786,  Cowper  wrote  to  Lady  Hes- 
keth,  in  reference  to  his  mental  malady,  a  letter 
descriptive  of  the  same,  from  which  we  have  al- 
ready quoted  some  passages.  "  It  will  be  thirteen 
years  in  little  more  than  a  week/'  said  he,  "  since 
this  malady  seized  me.  Methinks  I  hear  you  ask 
— your  affection  for  me  will,  1  know,  make  you 
wish  to  do  so — '  Is  it  removed  ?'  I  reply,  in  great 
measure,  but  not  quite.  Occasionally  I  am  much 
distressed,  but  that  distress  becomes  continually 
less  frequent,  and  I  think  less  violent."  "  In  the 
year  when  I  wrote  The  Task — for  it  occupied  me 
about  a  year — I  was  very  often  most  supremely 
unhappy  :  and  am,  under  G-od,  indebted  in  a  good 
part  to  that  work  for  not  having  been  much  worse." 
This  was  written  in  January,  a  month,  the  recur- 
rence of  which  Cowper  always  dreaded,  for  it  was 
in  that  month  that  his  tremendous  malady  had 


cowper's    employments.         -245 

seized  him,  and  he  feared  its  periodical  return. 
But  the  style  of  this  letter  shows  how  cheerfully 
he  could  speak  of  his  malady  when  he  exerted 
himself  to  view  it  and  describe  it  from  the  bright 
side. 

Cowper  here  says  that  while  writing  "  The  Task" 
he  was  often  supremely  unhappy  ;  it  was  a  period 
in  which  he  was  threatened  with  a  second  recur- 
rence of  his  malady  in  all  its  force,  and  he  suffered 
indescribably  from  dejection  of  spirits.  Yet  let  us 
look  from  another  point  of  view,  and  that  Cowper's 
own  point,  chosen  by  himself  in  his  poem,  upon 
the  tenor  of  his  life  and  employments,  and  we 
shall  see  the  same  supremely  unhappy  person  hap- 
pier than  thousands  whom  the  world  call  happy  ; 
and  even  in  his  own  conscious  estimation  not  un- 
favored of  his  God,  nor  without  deep  and  constant 
enjoyment. 

How  various  his  employments,  whom  the  world 
Calls  idle ;  and  who  justly  in  return 
Esteems  that  busy  world  an  idler  too ! 
Friends,  books,  a  garden,  and  perhaps  his  pen, 
Delightful  industry  enjoyed  at  home, 
And  Nature  in  her  cultivated  trim 
Dressed  to  his  taste,  inviting  him  abroad — 
Can  he  want  occupation,  who  has  these  ? 
Will  he -be  idle,  who  has  much  to  enjoy? 
Me,  therefore,  studious  of  laborious  ease, 
Not  slothful,  happy  to  deceive  the  time, 
Not  waste  it,  and  aware  that  human  life 
Is  but  a  loau  to  be  repaid  with  use, 
When  He  shall  call  His  debtors  to  account, 


246  BUSY      HOURS. 

From  whom  are  all  our  blessings,  business  finds 
E'en  here;  while  sedulous  I  seek  to  improve, 
At  least  neglect  not,  or  leave  unemployed, 
The  mind  he  gave  me ;  driving  it,  though  slack 
Too  oft,  and  much  impeded  in  its  work, 
By  causes  not  to  be  divulged  in  vain, 
To  its  just  point,  the  service  of  mankind. 
He  that  attends  to  his  interior  self, 
That  has  a  heart,  and  keeps  it ;  has  a  mind 
That  hungers,  and  supplies  it ;  and  who  seeks 
A  social,  not  a  dissipated  life, 
Has  business ;  feels  himself  engaged  to  achieve 
No  unimportant,  though  a  silent  task. 
A  life  all  turbulence  and  noise  may  seem 
To  him  that  leads  it,  wise,  and  to  be  praised ; 
But  wisdom  is  a  pearl  with  most  success 
Sought  in  still  waters  and  beneath  clear  skies. 
He  that  is  ever  occupied  in  storms, 
Or  dives  not  for  it,  or  brings  up  instead, 
Vainly  industrious,  a  disgraceful  prize. 

Now  this  and  similar  passages  are  truly  descrip- 
tive of  Cowper's  own  character  and  pursuits  ;  and 
while  beguiled  by  such  tastes  and  employments  from 
the  work  of  brooding  over  his  own  despondency,  he 
was  by  no  means  so  unhappy  as  he  sometimes 
seems,  in  his  letters.  "  My  descriptions,"  says  he, 
"  are  all  from  nature  ;  not  one  of  them  second- 
handed.  My  delineations  of  the  heart  are  from  my 
own  experience  ;  not  one  of  them  borrowed  from 
books,  or  in  the  least  degree  conjectural." 

Now  the  possessor  of  such  an  experience  as 
Cowper  frequently  delineates  can  not  be  called 
unhappy,  whatever  local,  or  occasional,  or  even 
perpetual  causes  of  dejection  may  weigh  upon  the 


AND      HAPPY      HOURS.  247 

spirits.  The  pleasure  of  employment,  after  the 
publication  of  "  The  Task,"  was  speedily  transfer- 
red to  the  translation  of  Homer's  Iliad.  This 
was  what  Cowper  himself  called  a  Herculean  labor, 
but  he  felt  himself  providentially  called  to  it,  and 
went  through  it  with  astonishing  perseverance  and 
ease.  He  began  it  the  12th  of  November,  1784. 
Writing  in  regard  to  it  to  Newton,  he  says, 
"  For  some  weeks  after  I  had  finished  The  Task, 
and  sent  away  the  last  sheet  corrected,  I  was, 
through  necessity,  idle,  and  suffered  not  a  little  in 
my  spirits  for  being  so.  One  day,  being  in  such 
distress  of  mind  as  was  hardly  supportable,  I  took 
up  the  Iliad,  and  merely  to  divert  attention,  and 
with  no  more  preconception  of  what  I  was  then 
entering  upon,  than  I  have  at  this  moment  of  what 
I  shall  be  doing  these  twenty  years  hence,  translated 
the  twelve  first  lines  of  it.  The  same  necessity 
pressing  me  again,  I  had  recourse  to  the  same  ex- 
pedient, and  translated  more.  Every  day  bringing 
its  occasion  for  employment  with  it,  every  day 
consequently  added  something  to  the  work  ;  till  at 
last  I  began  to  reflect  thus  :  The  Iliad  and  the 
Odyssey  together  consist  of  about  forty  thousand 
verses.  To  translate  these  forty  thousand  verses 
will  furnish  me  with  occupation  for  a  considerable 
time.  I  have  already  made  some  progress,  and  I 
find  it  a  most  agreeable  amusement."  He  set 
himself  forty  lines  a  day  as  his  work,  for  a  con- 


248  WORK     US'     HOMES. 

stancy,  translating  in  the  morning  and  transcrib- 
ing in  the  evening.  Sometimes  he  was  very  happy. 
"  Wonder  with  me,  my  beloved  cousin/1  he  writes 
in  a  letter  to  Lady  Hesketh,  "  at  the  goodness  of 
God,  who,  according  to  Dr.  Watts's  beautiful 
stanza, — 

*  Can  clear  the  darkest  skies, 
Can  give  us  day  for  night, 
Make  drops  of  sacred  sorrow  rise 
To  rivers  of  delight.' 

As  I  said  once  before,  so  say  I  again,  my  heart  is 
as  light  as  a  bird  on  the  subject  of  Homer.  Nei- 
ther without  prayer  nor  without  confidence  in  the 
providential  goodness  of  God,  has  that  work  been 
undertaken  or  continued.  I  am  not  so  dim-sighted, 
sad  as  my  spirit  is  at  times,  but  that  I  can  plainly 
discern  His  providence  going  before  me  in  the  way. 
Unforeseen,  unhoped-for  advantages,  have  sprung 
at  His  bidding,  and  a  prospect  at  first  cloudy  in- 
deed, and  discouraging  enough,  has  been  continu- 
ally brightening."  He  had  told  Newton  before, 
that  he  "  had  not  entered  on  this  work,  unconnected 
as  it  must  needs  appear  with  the  interests  of  the 
cause  of  God,  without  the  direction  of  His  provi- 
dence, nor  altogether  unassisted  by  Him  in  the 
performance  of  it.  Time  will  show  to  what  it  ul- 
timately tends.  I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  it 
has  a  tendency,  to  which  I  myself  am,  at  present, 
perfectly   a    stranger.      Be   that   as    it   may,  He 


newton's    m  essiah.  249 

knows  my  frame,  and  will  consider  that  I  am  but 
dust." 

About  this  time  he  received  from  his  friend  Mr. 
Newton  his  new  work  on  the  Messiah,  the  acknowl- 
edgment of  which  was  the  occasion  of  a  letter  from 
Cowper,  that  reveals  more  of  the  depths  of  his 
spiritual  distresses  than  almost  any  other  passage 
in  his  writings.  He  told  Newton  that  Adam's 
own  approach  to  the  Tree  of  Life,  after  he 
had  sinned,  was  not  more  effectually  prohibited 
by  the  flaming  sword,  that  turned  every  way, 
than  his  to  its  great  Antitype  (the  Lord  Je- 
sus) had  been  for  almost  thirteen  years,  a  short 
interval  of  three  or  four  days,  about  a  twelvemonth 
before,  alone  excepted.  "  For  what  reason  it  is 
that  I  am  thus  long  excluded,  if  I  am  ever  again 
to  be  admitted,  is  known  to  God  only.  I  can  say 
but  this,  that  if  He  is  still  my  Father,  His  pater- 
nal severity  has,  toward  me,  been  such  that  I  have 
reason  to  account  it  unexampled.  For  though 
others  have  suffered  desertion,  yet  few,  I  believe,  for 
so  long  a  time,  and  perhaps  none  a  desertion  ac- 
companied with  such  experiences.  But  they  have 
this  belonging  to  them,  that,  as  they  are  not  fit  for 
recital,  being  made  up  merely  of  infernal  ingre- 
dients, so  neither  are  they  susceptible  of  it ;  for  I 
know  no  language  in  which  they  could  be  expressed. 
They  are  as  truly  things  which  it  is  not  possible 
for  man  to  utter,  as  those  were  which  Paul  heard 
11* 


2jU  letter    to    h  e  w  t u >' . 

and  saw  in  the  third  heaven.  If  the  ladder  of 
Christian  experience  reaches,  as  I  suppose  it  does, 
to  the  very  presence  of  God,  it  has  nevertheless  its 
foot  in  the  abyss.  And  if  Paul  stood,  as  no  doubt 
he  did,  in  that  experience  of  his  to  which  I  have 
just  alluded,  on  the  topmost  round  of  it,  I  have 
been  standing,  and  still  stand,  on  the  lowest,  in 
this  thirteenth  year  that  has  passed  since  I  de- 
scended. In  such  a  situation  of  mind,  encompassed 
by  the  midnight  of  absolute  despair,  and  a  thou- 
sand times  rilled  with  unspeakable  horror,  I  first 
commenced  as  an  author.  Distress  drove  me  to 
it,  and  the  impossibility  of  subsisting  without  some 
employment  still  recommends  it. 

"  I  am  not,  indeed,  so  perfectly  hopeless  as  I 
was,  but  I  am  equally  in  need  of  an  occupation, 
being  often  as  much  and  sometimes  even  more 
worried  than  ever.  I  can  not  amuse  myself,  as  I 
once  could,  with  carpenters'  or  with  gardeners' 
tools,  or  with  squirrels  and  guinea-pigs.  At  that 
time  I  was  a  child.  But  since  it  has  pleased  God, 
whatever  else  He  withholds,  to  restore  to  me  a  man's 
mind,  I  have  put  away  childish  things.  Thus  far, 
therefore,  it  is  plain  that  I  have  not  chosen  or 
prescribed  to  myself  my  own  way.  but  have  been 
providentially  led  to  it  ;  perhaps  I  might  say  with 
equal  propriety  compelled  and  scourged  into  it ;  for 
certainly,  could  I  have  made  my  choice,  or  were  I 
permitted  to  make  it  even  now,  those  hours  which 


SUBMISSION.  251 

1  spend  in  poetry,  I  would  spend  with  God.  But 
it  is  evidently  His  will  that  I  should  spend  them 
as  I  do,  because  every  other  way  of  employing  them 
He  himself  continues  to  make  impossible.  If  in 
the  course  of  such  an  occupation,  or  by  inevitable 
consequence  of  it,  either  my  former  connections  are 
revived,  or  new  ones  occur,  these  things  are  as  much 
a  part  of  the  dispensation  as  the  leading  points  of 
it  themselves.  If  His  purposes  in  thus  directing 
me  are  gracious,  He  will  take  care  to  prove  them 
such  in  the  issue,  and  in  the  meantime  will  pre- 
serve me  (for  He  is  as  able  to  do  that  in  one  con- 
dition of  life  as  another)  from  all  mistakes  in 
conduct  that  might  prove  pernicious  to  myself,  or 
give  reasonable  offense  to  others.  I  can  say  it  as 
truly  as  ever  it  was  spoken,  '  Here  I  am  ;  let  Him 
do  with  me  as  seemeth  Him  good/  " 

Again,  at  a  date  not  far  from  the  other,  1785, 
he  remarks  in  a  similar  strain,  "  Of  myself,  who 
once  had  both  leaves  and  fruit,  but  who  now  have 
neither,  I  say  nothing,  or  only  this,  that  when  I 
am  overwhelmed  with  despair,  I  repine  at  my  bar- 
renness, and  think  it  hard  to  be  thus  blighted  ; 
but  when  a  glimpse  of  hope  breaks  in  upon  me,  I 
am  contented  to  be  the  sapless  thing  I  am,  know- 
ing that  He  who  has  commanded  me  to  wither, 
can  command  me  to  flourish  again  when  he  pleases. 
My  experiences,  however,  of  this  latter  kind,  are 
rare  and  transient.    The  light  that  reaches  me  can 


252  c  tt  E  R  R  r  d  J.  a  i:  ss. 

not  be  compared  either  to  that  of  the  sun  or  of 

the  moon.  It  is  a  flash  in  a  dark  night,  during 
which  the  heavens  seem  opened  only  to  shut 
again." 

It  might  be  supposed,  if  this  letter  were  the 
whole  ground  of  our  judgment,  that  at  this  time 
Cowper  was  supremely  miserable  ;  but  there  are 
other  letters,  close  upon  the  same  date,  and  some 
to  Newton  himself,  showing  that  it  was  far  other- 
wise. He  was  greatly  animated  and  cheered  just 
then  by  the  prospect  of  a  visit  from  his  beloved 
and  accomplished  cousin,  Lady  Hesketh  ;  and  he 
told  her  that  he  believed  it  would  be  a  cordial  to 
his  nervous  system.  "Joy  of  heart,"  said  he, 
"  from  whatever  occasion  it  may  arise,  is  the  best 
of  all  nervous  medicines  ;  and  I  should  not  wonder 
if  such  a  turn  given  to  my  spirits  should  have  even 
a  lasting  effect  of  the  most  advantageous  kind  upon 
them.  You  must  not  imagine,  neither,  that  I  am 
on  the  whole  in  any  great  degree  subject  to  nerv- 
ous affections.  Occasionally  I  am,  and  have  been 
these  many  years,  much  liable  to  dejection  ;  but 
at  intervals,  and  sometimes  for  an  interval  of 
weeks,  no  creature  would  suspect  it.  For  I  have 
not  that  which  commonly  is  a  symptom  of  such  a 
case,  belonging  to  me — I  mean  extraordinary  ele- 
vation in  the  absence  of  the  blue  devil.  When  I 
am  in  the  best  health,  my  tide  of  animal  spright- 
liness  flows  with  great  equality,  so  that  I  am  never 


THE      HAPPY      TRIO.  253 

at  any  time  exalted  in  proportion  as  1  am  some- 
times depressed.  My  depression  has  a  cause,  and 
if  that  cause  were  to  cease,  I  should  be  as  cheer- 
ful thenceforth,  and  perhaps  forever,  as  any  man 
need  be." 

He  also  wrote  to  Newton,  after  Lady  Hesketh's 
arrival,  that  he  felt  himself  "  well  content  to  say, 
without  any  enlargement  on  the  subject,  that  an 
inquirer  after  happiness  might  travel  far,  and  not 
find  a  happier  trio  than  meet  every  day  either  in 
our  parlor  or  in  the  parlor  of  the  vicarage."  It 
was  in  the  vicarage  that  Lady  Hesketh  had  taken 
up  her  residence,  and  in  her  parlor  the  trio,  so 
happy  and  so  pleasant,  met  every  other  day.  "  I 
will  not  say,"  he  continues,  "  that  my  part  of  the 
happiness  is  not  occasionally  somewhat  dashed  with 
the  sable  hue  of  those  notions  concerning  myself 
and  my  situation  that  have  occupied,  or  rather  pos- 
sessed me  so  long  ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  I  can 
also  affirm  that  my  cousin's  affectionate  behavior 
to  us  both,  the  sweetness  of  her  temper,  and  the 
sprightliness  of  her  conversation,  relieve  me  in  no 
small  degree  from  the  presence  of  them." 

It  was  much  that  Cowper  could  bring  himself 
to  speak  at  this  time  of  the  forms  of  his  spiritual 
despondency  as  notions.  It  was  not  always  from 
such  a  point  of  view,  or  in  such  a  light,  that  he 
was  enabled  to  regard  them.  They  tyrannized 
over  his  mind,  so  that  he  dared  not  look  them  in 


254  A      SOUL      DESERTED. 

the  face,  and  contradict  or  question  them.  They 
possessed  him  with  such  a  morbid  dread  and  help- 
lessness, that  he  felt  in  their  presence  somewhat 
as  he  used  to  do,  when  a  little,  timid,  trembling 
boy  at  school,  he  dared  look  no  higher  than  the 
shoe-buckles  of  the  older  tyrants.  At  times  they 
closed  upon  him  in  grim  reality.  "  Yesterday  was 
one  of  my  terrible  seasons.  The  grinners  at  '  John 
Gilpin'  little  dream  what  the  author  sometimes 
suffers."  When  again  he  entered  into  the  cloud, 
it  was  no  longer  a  notion. 

Speaking  of  the  old  dwelling  at  Olney,  after  they 
had  left  it,  "Never,"  says  he,  "did  I  see  so  forlorn 
and  woeful  a  spectacle.  Deserted  of  its  inhabit- 
ants, it  seemed  as  if  it  could  never  be  dwelt  in 
forever.  The  coldness  of  it,  the  dreariness,  and 
the  dirt,  made  me  think  it  no  unapt  resemblance 
of  a  soul  that  God  has  forsaken.  While  He  dwelt 
in  it,  and  manifested  Himself  there,  He  could  cre- 
ate His  own  accommodations,  and  give  it  occasion- 
ally the  appearance  of  a  palace  ;  but  the  moment 
He  withdraws,  and  takes  with  Him  all  the  furni- 
ture and  embellishment  of  His  graces,  it  becomes 
what  it  was  before  He  entered  it — the  habitation 
of  vermin  and  the  image  of  desolation.  Sometimes 
I  envy  the  living,  but  not  much,  or  not  long  ;  for 
while  they  live,  as  we  call  it,  they  too  are  liable  to 
desertion.     But  the  dead  who  have  died  in  the 


F  I  C  T  0  It  E      OF      HIMSELF.  255 

Lord,    I    envy    always  ;    for   they,    I    take    it    for 
granted,  can  be  no  more  forsaken." 

In  Cowper's  earlier  poem  of  "  Retirement,"  there 
is  presented  a  picture  of  the  melancholy  patient 
of  "  virtuous  and  faithful  Heberden,"  who  was 
Cowper's  physician  in  his  first  attack  of  madness  ; 
a  picture  of  himself,  affectingly  true  to  the  life, 
when  under  the  power  of  his  dreadful  and  un- 
searchable malady. 

Look  where  he  comes !  in  this  embowered  alcove 
Stand  close  concealed,  and  see  a  statue  move  : 
Lips  busy,  and  eyes  fixed,  foot  falling  slow, 
Arms  hanging  idly  down,  hands  clasped  below, 
Interpret  to  the  marking  eye  distress, 
Such  as  its  symptoms  can  alone  express. 
That  tongue  is  silent  now ;  that  silent  tongue 
Could  argue  once,  could  jest,  or  join  the  song, 
Could  give  advice,  could  censure  or  commend, 
Or  charm  the  sorrows  of  a  drooping  friend. 
Renounced  alike  its  office  and  its  sport, 
Its  brisker  and  its  graver  strains  fall  short ; 
Both  fail  beneath  a  fever's  secret  sway, 
And  like  a  summer  brook  are  passed  away. 
This  is  a  sight  for  pity  to  peruse, 
Till  she  resemble  faintly  what  she  views ; 
Till  sympathy  contract  a  kindred  pain, 
Pierced  with  the  woes  that  she  laments  in  vain. 
This,  of  all  maladies  that  man  infest, 
Claims  most  compassion,  and  receives  the  least. 
Job  felt  it,  when  he  groaned  beneath  the  rod, 
And  the  barb'd  arrows  of  a  frowning  God  ; 
And  such  emollients  as  his  friends  could  spare, 
Friends  such  as  his  for  modern  Jobs  prepare. 

Man  is  a  harp,  whose  chords  elude  the  sight, 
Each  yielding  harmony,  disposed  aright ; 
The  screws  reversed  (a  task  which  if  He  please 


256  pic  t  i:  b  b    o  r    u  i  ii  s  e  l  w . 

God  in  a  moment  executes  with  ease) 

Ten  thousand  thousand  strings  at  once  go  loose, 

Lost,  till  lie  tune  them,  all  their  power  and  use. 

Then  neither  heathy  wilds,  nor  scenes  as  fair 

As  ever  recompensed  the  peasant's  care, 

Nor  soft  declivities  with  tufted  hills, 

Nor  view  of  waters  turning  busy  mills, 

Parks  in  which  Art  Preceptress  Nature  weds, 

Nor  gardens  interspersed  with  flowery  beds, 

Nor  gales  that  catch  the  scent  of  blooming  groves, 

And  waft  it  to  the  mourner  as  he  roves, 

Can  call  up  life  into  his  faded  eye, 

That  passes  all  he  sees  unheeded  by. 

No  wounds  like  those  a  wounded  spirit  feels, 

No  cure  for  such,  till  God,  who  makes  them,  heals. 

And  thou,  sad  sufferer  under  nameless  ill, 
That  yields  not  to  the  touch  of  human  skill, 
Improve  the  kind  occasion,  understand 
A  Father's  frown,  and  kiss  His  chastening  hand. 
To  thee  the  day-spring  and  the  blaze  of  noon, 
The  purple  evening  and  resplendent  moon, 
The  stars  that  sprinkled  o'er  the  vault  of  night 
Seem  drops  descending  in  a  shower  of  light, 
Shine  not,  or  undesired  and  hated  shine, 
Seen  through  the  medium  of  a  cloud  like  thine; 
Yet  seek  Him,  in  His  favor  life  is  found, 
All  bliss  beside  a  shadow  or  a  sound : 
Then  heaven  eclipsed  so  long,  and  this  dull  earth 
Shall  seem  to  start  into  a  second  birth. 
Nature,  assuming  a  more  lovely  face, 
Borrowing  a  beauty  from  the  works  of  grace, 
Shall  be  despised  and  overlooked  no  more, 
Shall  fill  thee  with  delights  unfelt  before, 
Impart  to  things  inanimate  a  voice, 
And  bid  her  mountains  and  her  hills  rejoice. 
The  sound  shall  run  along  the  winding  vales, 
And  thou  enjoy  an  Eden  ere  it  fails. 

Both  the  gloom  and  the  gladness  of  this  picture 
were  drawn  from    Cowper's   own   profound  expe- 


I  H  E      H  E  A  V  E  N  L  Y      0  UKE.  257 

rience  ;  he  had  known  the  screws  reversed,  the 
chords  jarring  in  conflict  and  chaos  ;  and  he  had 
known  the  harp  tuned  again  by  the  Maker,  and 
yielding  a  celestial  melody.  He  had  known  the 
wounded  spirit,  and  the  heavenly  cure.  No  poet 
on  earth  ever  descended  into  such  depths,  and  came 
forth  again  from  them,  to  sing  on  earth  strains  so 
resembling  those  that  employ  the  happy  spirits  in 
heaven.  If  the  desire  of  Satan  to  have  and  to  sift 
as  wheat  those  whom  he  sees  most  likely  to  make 
a  breach  in  his  kingdom,  were  always  attended  with 
a  result  so  mortifying,  one  would  think  he  must, 
ere  this,  have  changed  his  mode  of  tactics.  And, 
indeed,  in  spiritual  as  well  as  temporal  things,  it 
may  be  said, 

That  Satan  now  's  grown  wiser  than  of  yore, 
And  tempts  by  making  rich,  not  making  poor. 

If  he  can  make  any  one  say,  "  I  am  rich  and  in- 
creased with  goods,  and  have  need  of  nothing,"  lie 
is  very  near  the  accomplishment  of  his  purposes  ; 
but  very  far  from  it  while  he  merely  succeeds  in 
keeping  the  soul  troubled,  distressed,  and  self- 
despairing. 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

COWPER'S  HAPPY  EXPERIENCE. — HIS  RELIGIOUS  ENJOYMENT  OF 
NATURE. — GENIUS  AND  HUMILITY. — DANGER  AND  DISCD7LINE. — 
SELF-KNOWLEDGE   IN  THE   FURNACE. — MALADY  IN   ]  787. 

It  was  with  an  eye  and  heart  thus  blissfully  en- 
lightened that  Cowper  had  been  taught  to  look 
upon  Nature  ;  and  inasmuch  as  he  has  told  us  that, 
both  in  his  delineations  of  Nature  and  of  the  hu- 
man heart,  he  had  drawn  all  from  experience,  and 
nothing  from  second-hand,  we  can  not  but  per- 
sonify the  author  when  we  read  those  exquisite  pas- 
sages in  "  The  Task"  descriptive  of  the  filial  delight 
with  which  the  Christian  child  and  freeman  looks 
forth  upon  the  works  of  God.  The  poet  that  could 
write,  out  of  his  own  experience,  the  close  of  the 
fifth  book  of  "  The  Task,"  «  The  Winter  Morning 
Walk,"  and  that  of  the  sixth  book  also,  "  The 
Winter  Walk  at  Noon,"  must  himself  have  been 
the  happy  man,  appropriating  Mature  as  his  Fa- 
ther's work,  must  himself  have  felt  the  dear,  filial 
relationship,  the  assurance  of  a  Father's  love,  and 
of  a  child's  inheritance  in  heaven.     Not  withstand- 


THE     SPELL      BKOKEN.  259 

ing  the  cloudy,  fathomless,  despairing  deeps  through 
which  his  soul,  much  of  the  time,  had  to  struggle, 
yet  it  was  he  himself  that  felt  compelled  to  ex- 
claim, when  gazing  forth  into  the  blue  abyss  upon 
those  starry  hosts  that  navigate  a  sea  that  knows 
no  storms,  My  Father  made  them  all ! 

His  soul, 
Much  conversant  with  heaven,  did  often  hold, 
With  those  fair  ministers  of  light  to  man 
That  fill  the  skies  nightly  with  silent  pomp, 
Sweet  conference. 

There  was  a  morbid,  brooding  obstinacy  in  his 
mental  malady,  a  sullen  and  inveterate  self-tor- 
menting ingenuity  of  argument,  and  perverseness 
of  conclusion  against  himself,  that  held  him  for  a 
while,  held  him  habitually,  while  he  listened  to 
himself;  but  sometimes  the  spell  was  broken, 
oftener,  indeed,  than  his  black-browed  accusers 
suffered  him  to  admit,  and  he  enjoyed  with  his 
whole  heart  the  opening  heavens,  and  received 
sweet  earnest  of  the  presence  of  his  God. 

With  animated  hopes  my  soul  beholds, 

And  many  an  aching  wish,  your  beamy  fires, 

That  show  like  beacons  in  the  blue  abyss, 

Ordained  to  guide  the  embodied  spirit  home 

From  toilsome  life  to  never-ending  rest. 

Love  kindles  as  I  gaze.     I  feel  desires 

That  give  assurance  of  their  own  success, 

And  that,  infused  from  heaven,  must  thither  tend. 

It  must  have  been  in  the  deep  consciousness  of 
communion  with  his  Maker,  in   the  profound  ex- 


260  C  0  W  P  B  B      U  N      T  II  B      M<>  D  M  T 

perience  of  gratitude,  and  faith,  and  love,  that  he 
wrote  those  closing  lines  of  the  fifth  book  of  "  The 
Task."  He  may  have  had  to  go  down  from  the 
mount  immediately  afterward,  to  converse  with 
suffering  and  gloom  ;  but  he  was  on  the  mount 
then,  a  mount  of  transfiguration,  and  the  Lord  of 
Nature  and  of  Grace  was  there,  communing  with 
him. 

A  voice  is  heard,  that  mortal  ears  hear  not, 

Till  Thou  hast  touched  them ;  'tis  the  voice  of  song, 

A  loud  hosanna  sent  from  all  Thy  works ; 

Which  he  that  hears  it  with  a  shout  repeats, 

And  adds  his  rapture  to  the  general  praise. 

In  that  blessd  moment,  Nature  throwing  wide 

Her  vail  opaque,  discloses  with  a  smile 

The  Author  of  her  beauties,  who,  retired 

Behind  His  own  creation,  works  unseen 

By  the  impure,  and  hears  His  power  denied. 

Thou  art  the  source  and  center  of  all  minds, 

Thou  only  point  of  rest,  Eternal  Word ! 

From  Thee  departing,  they  are  lost  and  rove 

At  random,  without  honor,  hope,  or  peace. 

From  Thee  is  all  that  soothes  the  life  of  man, 

His  high  endeavor,  and  his  glad  success. 

His  strength  to  suffer  and  his  will  to  serve. 

But  0  Thou  bounteous  Giver  of  all  good ! 

Thou  art  of  all  Thy  gifts  Thyself  the  Crown  ! 

Give  what  Thou  canst,  without  Thee  we  are  poor, 

And  with  Thee  rich,  take  what  Thou  wilt  away. 

One  may  say  with  perfect  truth  that  if  all  Cow- 
per's  sufferings  had  taught,  or  enabled  him  t;>  write, 

only  those  two  hist  lines  ;  yet,  teaching  him  that, 
as  his  own  deep  experience,  they  were  well  eru- 
dured,  they  were  infinitely  precious.     Nevertheless, 


AND     IN      THE      VALLEY.  261 

hidden  so  often  and  so  long  from  the  enjoyment 
of  the  light  he  was  the  means  of  communicating  to 
others,  Cowper's  case  is  a  most  extraordinary  illus- 
tration of  the  grand  poetical  aphorism, 

"  Heaven  doth  with  us  as  we  with  torches  do, 
Not  light  them  for  themselves." 

God  will  so  "  seal  instruction,"  according  to 
that  wondrous  revelation  of  the  manner  of  His 
dealings  with  those  whom  He  means  to  save,  in 
the  thirty-third  chapter  of  the  Book  of  Job,  as  to 
"  hide  pride  from  man/'  He  will  seal  His  most 
precious  gifts  with  the  great  seal  of  humility.  He 
did  so  with  Cowper.  The  possession  and  exercise 
of  such  surpassing  powers  of  genius  would  have 
been  dangerous  and  self-pernicious  otherwise. 

And  therefore  perhaps  it  was,  that  not  till  he 
was  fifty  years  of  age,  and  not  till  he  had  passed 
through  a  baptism  of  such  suffering  in  the  valley 
of  the  shadow  of  death  as  few  men  upon  earth 
have  encountered,  did  God  permit  the  genius  of 
Cowper  to  unfold  itself,  and  the  tide  of  inevitable 
praise  to  set  in  upon  him.  And  even  then  He  so 
disciplined  Cowper,  as  to  make  him  feel  as  if  that 
very  genius  were  rather  an  external  angel,  com- 
missioned of  God  to  help  him  through  his  suffer- 
ings, than  an  inward  self-possession,  which  he  could 
command  and  exercise  at  will.  He  was  naturally 
ambitious  of  distinction  ;  what  fallen  mortal  ever 
was  not  ?  and  in  any  period  of  elevation,  when  the 


262  COWPER      ON      THE      MOUNT 

load  of  his  misery  was  lightened  and  his  health  and 
spirits  rose,  he  found,  and  felt,  and  acknowledged 
this  tendency,  this  passion,  and  knew  that  he 
needed  God's  chastising  hand.  And  yet,  at  the 
same  time,  when  in  the  depths  of  spiritual  dis- 
tress, he  felt  as  though  the  very  last  dregs  of  that 
passion  had  been  wrung  out  from  him,  as  though 
the  arrplauses  of  a  world  could  not  affect  him,  as 
though  the  Arch-Enemy  himself  could  never  again 
touch  him  with  that  dart. 

There  are  two  extraordinary  letters  written,  the 
one  to  his  friend  Newton,  the  other  to  Lady  Hes- 
keth,  both  of  surpassing  interest,  but  still  more 
deeply  interesting  when  compared  ;  written  in 
different  states  of  mind,  yet  at  times  very  near 
each  other  ;  which  show  at  once  how  deeply  he 
had  been  made  to  understand  himself,  and  yet 
how  much  less  he  knew  of  himself  than  God  knew 
for  him  ;  how  clearly  in  the  abyss  he  could  see 
the  darkness,  yet  how  soon  upon  the  mount  he 
might  become  insensible  to  the  danger.  "God 
knows,"  he  said  to  Newton  in  1785,  "that  my 
mind  having  been  occupied  more  than  twelve 
years  in  the  contemplation  of  the  most  distressing 
subjects,  the  world,  and  its  opinion  of  what  I  write 
is  become  as  unimportant  to  me  as  the  whistling 
of  a  bird  in  a  bush."  If  the  world  did  not  approve 
him,  he  thought  that  would  not  trouble  him.  "  And 
as  to  their  commendations,  if  I  should  chance  to 


AND      IN      THE      VALLEY.  263 

win  them.  I  feel  myself  equally  invulnerable  there. 
The  view  that  I  have  had  of  myself  for  many  years 
has  been  so  truly  humiliating,  that  I  think  the 
praises  of  all  mankind  could  not  hurt  me.  God 
knows  that  I  speak  my  present  sense  of  the  matter 
at  least  most  truly,  when  I  say  that  the  admira- 
tion of  creatures  like  myself  seems  to  me  a  weapon 
the  least  dangerous  that  my  worst  enemy  could 
employ  against  me.  I  am  fortified  against  it  by 
such  solidity  of  real  self-abasement,  that  I  deceive 
myself  most  egregiously  if  I  do  not  heartily  de- 
spise it.  Praise  belongeth  to  God  ;  and  I  seem  to 
myself  to  covet  it  no  more  than  I  covet  Divine 
honors.  Could  I  assuredly  hope  that  God  would 
at  last  deliver  me,  I  should  have  reason  to  thank 
Him  for  all  that  I  have  suffered,  were  it  only  for 
the  sake  of  this  single  fruit  of  my  affliction,  that  it 
has  taught  me  how  much  more  contemptible  I  am 
in  myself  than  I  ever  before  suspected,  and  has  re- 
duced my  former  share  of  self-knowledge  (of  which 
at  that  time  I  had  a  tolerably  good  opinion)  to  a 
mere  nullity  in  comparison  with  what  I  have  ac- 
quired since. 

"  Self  is  a  subject  of  inscrutable  misery  and  mis- 
chief, and  can  never  be  studied  to  so  much  advan- 
tage as  in  the  dark  ;  for  as  the  bright  beams  of  the 
sun  seem  to  impart  a  beauty  to  the  foulest  objects, 
and  can  make  even  a  dunghill  smile,  so  the  light 
of  God's  countenance,  vouchsafed  to  a  fallen  crea- 


264  COWPER     OX      THE     MOUNT 

tare,  so  .sweetens  him  and  softens  him  for  the  time, 
that  he  seems  both  to  others  and  himself  to  have 
nothing  savage  or  sordid  about  him.  But  the 
heart  is  a  nest  of  serpents,  and  will  be  such  while 
it  continues  to  beat.  If  God  cover  the  mouth  of 
that  nest  with  His  hand,  they  are  hush  and  snug  ; 
but  if  He  withdraw  His  hand,  the  whole  family- 
lift  up  their  heads  and  hiss,  and  are  as  active  and 
venomous  as  ever.  This  I  always  professed  to  be- 
lieve from  the  time  that  I  had  embraced  the  truth, 
but  never  knew  it  as  I  do  now." 

Here  is  deep  self-knowledge,  and  yet  the  ground 
and  possibility  of  self-forgetfulness  and  self-de- 
ception. Dear,  afflicted  friend,  (Newton  might 
have  written  to  him,)  may  God  keep  you  in 
His  hand,  safe  from  the  treacherous  praises  of 
the  world,  till  He  take  the  whole  brood  and  family 
of  serpents  out  of  your  heart ;  for  till  He  does  that 
with  us,  then  only  are  we  safe  ;  and  meanwhile 
He  will  bum  them  out,  with  our  hearts  in  the 
hottest  crucible,  if  there  be  no  other  way.  But 
beware  of  Peter's  word,  nor  confidently  say,  even 
in  regard  to  what  seems  now  so  worthless  to  you 
as  human  applause,  It  never  can  hurt  me,  but 
grant  it  never  may  ! 

Nor  was  even  Cowper,  with  all  his  tremendous 
gloom  and  mental  suffering,  yet  out  of  danger. 
The  letter  to  Lady  Hesketh  is  a  frank,  sincere 
avowal  in  an  interval  of  brighter  spirits,  of  the 


AND      IN      THE      VALLEY.  265 

ardent  thirst  for  fame  which  he  knew  to  be  in 
him  ;  but  it  seems  clear  that  in  the  light  it  did 
not  appear  quite  so  glaringly  to  be  one  of  the  brood 
of  serpents,  hush  and  snug,  as  it  had  done  in  the 
dark.  "  I  am  not  ashamed/'  he  says  to  his  beloved 
cousin,  "  to  confess  that  having  commenced  an  au- 
thor, I  am  most  abundantly  desirous  to  succeed  as 
such.  I  have  (what,  perhaps,  you  little  suspect 
me  of)  in  my  nature  an  infinite  share  of  ambition. 
But  with  it  I  have  at  the  same  time,  as  you  well 
know,  an  equal  share  of  diffidence.  To  this  com- 
bination of  opposite  qualities  it  has  been  owing, 
that  till  lately  I  stole  through  life  without  under- 
taking any  thing,  yet  always  wishing  to  distinguish 
myself.  At  last  I  ventured,  ventured  too  in  the 
only  path  that,  at  so  late  a  period,  was  yet  open  to 
me  ;  and  am  determined,  if  God  have  not  deter- 
mined otherwise,  to  work  my  way  through  the 
obscurity  that  has  been  so  long  my  portion,  into 
notice.  Eveiy  thing,  therefore,  that  seems  to 
threaten  this  my  favorite  purpose  with  disappoint- 
ment, affects  me  nearly.  I  suppose  that  all  ambi- 
tious minds  are  in  the  same  predicament.  He  who 
seeks  distinction  must  be  sensible  of  disappoint- 
ment exactly  in  the  same  proportion  as  he  desires 
applause. 

"  And  now,  my  precious  cousin,  I  have  unfolded 
my  heart  to  you  in  this  particular  without  a  speck 
of  dissimulation.     Some  people,  and  good  people, 


266 


A      NEW      ATTACK 


too,  would  blame  me.  But  you  will  not  ;  and 
they,  I  think,  would  blame  without  just  cause. 
"We  certainly  do  not  honor  God  when  we  bury,  or 
when  we  neglect  to  improve,  as  far  as  we  may, 
whatever  of  talent  He  may  have  bestowed  upon  us, 
whether  it  be  little  or  much.  In  natural  things  as 
well  as  in  spiritual,  it  is  a  never-failing  truth  that 
to  him  who  hath,  that  is,  to  him  who  occupies  what 
he  hath  diligently,  and  so  as  to  increase  it,  more 
shall  be  given.  Set  me  down,  therefore,  my  dear, 
for  an  industrious  rhymer,  so  long  as  I  shall  have 
the  ability.  For  in  this  only  way  is  it  possible  for 
me,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  either  to  honor  God  or  to 
serve  man,  or  even  to  serve  myself/' 

But  God,  in  Cowper's  case,  would  "  hide  pride 
from  man."  He  still  kept  him  in  the  furnace,  and 
again  and  again  permitted  all  the  waves  and  bil- 
lows of  an  almost  infernal  despair  to  go  over  him. 
In  1787,  in  the  dreaded  month  of  January,  in  the 
midst  of  his  labors  on  Homer,  a  severe  access  of  his 
malady  prostrated  him  so  completely,  that  for  six 
months  he  could  not  put  pen  to  paper.  The  at- 
tack, he  afterward  told  Newton,  could  not  be  of  a 
worse  kind.  It  was  foreboded  by  a  nervous  fever, 
which  he  told  Lady  Hesketh  was  attended  with 
much  dejection,  and  kept  him  during  a  whole  week 
almost  sleepless.  During  this  season  of  almost 
madness,  the  sight  of  any  face  except  Mrs.  Unwin's 
was  to  him  an  insupportable  grievance  ;  even  New- 


SUDDEN     RECOVERY.  2G7 

ton  could  not  see  him  ;  and  indeed  during  the 
whole  time  his  mind  was  laboring  under  a  disbe- 
lief of  Newton's  personal  identity,  with  a  convic- 
tion that  for  thirteen  years  he  had  been  correspond- 
ing with  him  as  a  friend,  under  the  disagreeable 
suspicion  all  the  while  of  his  being  not  a  friend, 
but  a  stranger.  "  Never  was  the  mind  of  man," 
said  he,  in  his  first  letter  to  Newton  announcing  his 
recovery,  "  benighted  to  the  degree  that  mine  has 
been.  The  storms  that  have  assailed  me  would 
have  overset  the  faith  of  every  man  that  ever  had 
any;  and  the  very  remembrance  of  them,  even 
after  they  have  been  long  passed  by,  makes  hope 
impossible/'  From  this  dreadful  condition  of  mind 
he  says  that  he  emerged  suddenly,  without  the 
slightest  previous  notice  of  the  change,  and  how 
long  it  might  last  they  were  wholly  uncertain. 
However,  he  soon  resumed  his  correspondence  and 
his  literary  labors,  and  his  health  and  spirits  con- 
tinued for  a  season  to  improve. 

There  were  occasions  on  which  Cowper  evidently 
felt  himself  entirely  free  from  any  disorder,  a  man, 
by  the  blessing  of  God,  perfectly  well,  both  in- 
wardly and  outwardly.  For  example,  he  writes  to 
his  young  friend  and  kinsman  Johnson,  under  date 
of  1791,  and  speaks  of  the  disorder  of  his  spirits, 
to  which  he  has  been  all  his  life  subject.  "  At 
present,"  says  he,  "  thank  God,  I  am  perfectly 
well,  both  in  mind  and  body." 


268  LABOBfl     OM      BOX1B, 

Again,  in  the  same  year,  in  a  letter  to  Mrs.  King, 
he  says,  after  speaking  of  his  insupportable  melan- 
choly, "  This  is  the  first  day  of  my  complete  re- 
covery, the  first  in  which  I  have  perceived  no 
symptoms  of  my  terrible  malady.'" 

But  such  delightful  seasons  of  freedom  from 
gloom  were  transitory  :  the  malady  resumed  its 
reign  ;  and  he  told  Mrs.  King  that  in  the  depths 
of  it  he  wrote  "  The  Task"  and  the  volume  that 
preceded  it;  "  and  in  the  same  deeps  I  am  now 
translating  Homer."  The  industry,  resolution,  and 
perseverance  which  it  required  to  struggle  on 
through  such  a  work,  under  such  discouragements, 
were  by  themselves  evidences  of  a  very  powerful 
mind,  not  at  all  unbalanced  or  weakened  by  the 
oppressive  burden  even  of  despair.  The  work  com- 
pelled him  to  the  utmost  closeness  of  application. 
In  one  of  his  letters  to  Mrs.  King  he  curiously  dis- 
closes the  perpetual  labor,  whether  at  home  or 
abroad,  in  which  it  had  involved  him.  There  was 
not  a  scrap  of  paper  belonging  to  him  that  was 
not  scribbled  over  with  blank  verse,  and  on  taking 
her  letter  from  a  bundle  to  answer  it,  he  found  it 
inscribed  with  scraps  of  Homer.  He  quoted  the 
lines,  and  told  her  that  when  he  wrote  them  he  was 
rambling  at  a  considerable  distance  from  home. 
Setting  one  foot  on  a  mole-hill,  and  placing  his  hat, 
with  the  (Town  upward,  on  his  knee  for  a  writing- 
desk,  he  laid  her  letter  upon  it.  and  with  his  pencil 


. 


LUDICROUS     COMPARISON.  269 

scribbled  the  fragment  that  he  might  not  forget  it. 
In  this  way  he  had  written  many  and  many  a  pas- 
sage of  the  work,  and  earned  it  home  to  be  incor- 
porated in  the  translation. 

During  these  years,  most  unfortunately  thus 
hampered  with  this  great  undertaking,  he  might 
have  written  many  original  poems,  for  he  was  often 
in  the  mood  for  it,  but  his  appointed  task  would 
not  permit  it ;  he  could  not  take  the  time.  In 
one  of  his  letters  to  Lady  Hesketh  he  gave  her  a 
ludicrous  heroic  comparison,  after  the  manner  of 
Homer,  to  account  for  his  producing  so  few  occa- 
sional poems,  and  for  his  withholding  the  very  few 
that  he  did  produce.  "  A  thought  sometimes 
strikes  me  before  I  rise  ;  if  it  runs  readily  into 
verse,  and  I  can  finish  it  before  breakfast,  it  is  well, 
otherwise  it  dies  and  is  forgotten  ;  for  all  the  sub- 
sequent hours  are  devoted  to  Homer.  Fine  things, 
indeed,  I  have  few.  He  who  has  Homer  to  tran- 
scribe, may  well  be  contented  to  do  little  else.  As 
when  an  ass,  being  harnessed  with  ropes  to  a  hand- 
cart, drags  with  hanging  ears  his  heavy  burden, 
neither  filling  the  long-echoing  streets  with  his 
harmonious  bray,  nor  throwing  up  his  heels  behind, 
frolicsome  and  airy,  as  asses  less  engaged  are  wont 
to  do  ;  so  I,  satisfied  to  find  myself  indispensably 
obliged  to  render  into  the  best  possible  English 
meter  eight-and-forty  Greek  books,  of  which  the 
two  finest  poems  in  the  world  consist,  account  it 


270 


ORIGINAL     POEMS 


quite  sufficient  if  I  may  at  last  achieve  that  labor, 
and  seldom  allow  myself  those  pretty  little  vagaries 
in  which  I  should  otherwise  delight,  and  of  which, 
if  I  should  live  long  enough,  I  intend  hereafter  to 
enjoy  my  fill." 

Cowper's  fragmentary  poem  on  "  Yardley  Oak," 
and  that  on  the  "  Four  Ages,"  are  examples  of 
what  he  might  have  produced,  had  leisure  and 
serenity  of  mind  been  vouchsafed  ;  indeed  we  may 
say,  had  his  time  been  at  his  own  disposal,  even 
amid  all  the  anxiety  and  distress  that  by  day  and 
by  night  had  become  the  habit  of  his  being.  But 
the  sounds  of  despair,  to  which  he  appeared  to  be 
perpetually  listening,  seemed  not  in  the  least  to 
interfere  with  the  play  of  his  original  inventive  and 
suggestive  faculty  of  genius.  They  no  more  pre- 
vented the  vigorous  exercise  of  thought  and  imagi- 
nation in  their  richest  moods,  than  the  thunder  of 
the  Cataract  of  Niagara  hinders  the  pine  forests 
from  waving  or  the  flowers  from  blossoming,  or 
withholds  the  birds  from  their  melodies,  or  the  grass 
from  its  greenness.  Nay,  the  pressure  of  despond- 
ency and  gloom  seemed  to  give  a  solemn  grandeur 
and  compactness  to  his  trains  of  thought ;  and 
those  fragments  to  which  we  have  referred  stand 
like  majestic  Propyheums,  behind  which  there  is 
found  indeed  no  temple,  but  which  irresistibly  im- 
press the  spectator  with  the  sublimity  and  vastness 
of  the  conception  that  must  have  filled  the  mind 


PREVENTED      BY      HOMER.  271 

of  the  architect.  The  "  Four  Ages/'  judging  from 
the  beginning,  would  have  been  a  still  sublimer 
and  more  profound  poem  than  "  The  Task." 
Something  the  same  grand  train  of  thought  seems 
to  have  been  commenced  as  in  "  Yardley  Oak," 
but  it  breaks  off  just  at  the  commencement,  just 
merely  when  the  impression  is  left  of  a  mighty 
and  glorious  region  before  you,  through  which  you 
are  to  be  conveyed,  but  as  in  a  dream  the  power 
quits  you,  and  you  fall  and  wake.  Or,  as  when  you 
have  been  carried  to  the  summit  of  a  mountain, 
and  suddenly,  instead  of  the  disclosure  of  a  glorious, 
illimitable  landscape,  an  impenetrable  ocean  of 
mist  is  rolling  before  you. 

There  must  have  been  a  consciousness  of  these 
powers  in  Cowper's  mind  ;  he  could  not  have  begun 
such  poems,  and  in  such  a  manner  begun  them, 
without  the  vivid  feeling  of  what  he  could  accom- 
plish, by  the  Divine  blessing  ;  and  it  must  have 
been  with  a  deeper  feeling  of  sorrow  and  disap- 
pointment, or  constraint,  than  at  any  time  he  ex- 
presses, that  he  found  himself  compelled  to  turn 
away  from  such  delightful  and  exciting  visions  to 
the  drudgery  of  the  translator  and  the  commenta- 
tor. And  yet,  there  were  no  longings  of  disap- 
pointed ambition  ;  there  was  now  nothing  but  sad 
humility  and  patience,  and  a  mournful  longing 
after  God.  Most  affectingly  does  he  refer  to  his 
condition  of  supposed  banishment  from  the  Divine 


272 


Y  E  A  It  X  1  N  G  S      AFTER     GOD. 


favor  ;  and  the  mournful  grief  and  desolation  of 
his  spirit  under  it  were  a  precious  and  convincing 
proof  to  others,  though  not  to  himself,  that  God 
was  with  him,  and  that,  wake  when  he  might  out 
of  this  dream  of  darkness,  he  should  find  himself 
satisfied  with  God's  likeness  in  a  world  of  light. 
Cowper's  yearnings  after  God,  and  his  patience  and 
submission  to  the  Divine  will,  were  proofs  of  the 
light  of  life  within  him,  though  he  felt  it  not.  It 
is  a  most  blessed  promise,  "  He  that  followeth  Me 
shall  not  walk  in  darkness,  -but  shall  have  the  light 
of  life."  Cowper  always  had  that,  and  in  the  pos- 
session of  it  was  ripening  in  holiness  and  advancing 
toward  heaven,  even  when  he  seemed  to  himself 
going  down  to  the  bottoms  of  the  mountains,  in 
a  darkness  deeper  than  Jonah's.  "  The  weeds 
were  wrapped  about  my  head ;  the  earth  with 
her  bars  was  about  me  forever ;  my  soul  fainted 
within  me."  "  God  knows,"  exclaimed  Cowper, 
"  how  much  rather  I  would  be  the  obscure  tenant 
of  a  lath-and-plaster  cottage,  with  a  lively  sense 
of  my  interest  in  a  Kedeemer,  than  the  most  ad- 
mired object  of  public  notice  without  it.  Alas  ! 
what  is  a  whole  poem,  even  one  of  Homer's,  com- 
pared with  a  single  aspiration  that  finds  its  way 
immediately  to  God,  though  clothed  in  ordinary 
language,  or  perhaps  not  articulated  at  all !" 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

REMOVAL  FROM  OLXEY  TO  AVESTOX. — COMPARISOX  OP  COWPER'S 
FEELIXGS  AT  DIFFERENT  PERIODS. — TEXOR  OF  SOUTITEY's  COM- 
MENTS   PPOX   COWPER'S   EXPERIEXCE   AND   LETTERS. 

Cowper's  removal  from  Olney  to  Weston,  a 
neighboring  village  much  more  delightful  and 
agreeable,  had  taken  place,  happily,  before  this 
new  attack.  The  change  was  brought  about  by 
the  friendship  and  care  of  Lady  Hesketh,  who  took 
a  house  at  Weston,  on  the  borders  of  the  pleasure- 
grounds  of  Mr.  Throckmorton,  and  belonging  to 
him  ;  a  charming  situation,  and  much  more  health- 
ful than  their  confined,  damp,  inconvenient  habi- 
tation at  Olney.  Thither  Cowper  and  the  family 
removed,  but  they  had  no  sooner  become  settled 
for  a  fortnight,  than  a  most  severe  affliction  was 
laid  upon  them  in  the  sudden  illness  and  death  of 
Cowper/s  dear  friend  and  long  and  constant  corre- 
spondent, Mrs.  Unwin's  beloved  son.  The  an- 
guish to  himself,  and  the  sympathy  in  Mrs.  Un- 
winds sorrow,  occasioned  by  this  bereavement,  which 
took  place  in  November,  may  have  had  some  effect 


l!74  KEMU  V  A  L      T  0      \V  E  8  I  0  N  . 

in  hastening  the  attack  of  his  mental  malady,  the 
next  January.  The  visit  of  Lady  Hesketh  had 
been  to  him  a  source  of  great  animation  and  delight. 
The  change  of  habitation  which  resulted  from  it 
was  a  lasting  benefit.  Cowper  himself  thought 
that  the  nervous  fever  so  oppressive  to  his  spirits 
was  much  exasperated  by  the  circumstances  of  his 
abode  at  Olney.  He  speaks  of  the  atmosphere 
encumbered  with  raw  vapors,  issuing  from  flooded 
meadows  ;  "  and  we  in  particular/'  says  he,  "  per- 
haps have  fared  the  worse  for  sitting  so  often,  and 
sometimes  for  months,  over  a  cellar  filled  with 
water.  These  ills  we  shall  escape  in  the  uplands, 
and  as  we  may  reasonably  hope,  of  course,  their 
consequences.  But  as  for  happiness,"  says  Cowper, 
"  he  that  has  once  had  communion  with  his  Maker 
must  be  more  frantic  than  ever  I  was  yet,  if  he  can 
dream  of  finding  it  at  a  distance  from  Him.  I  no 
more  expect  happiness  at  Weston  than  here,  or  than 
I  should  expect  it  in  company  with  felons  and  out- 
laws in  the  hold  of  a  ballast-lighter.  Animal 
spirits,  however,  have  their  value,  and  are  especially 
desirable  to  him  who  is  condemned  to  carry  a  bur- 
den which  at  any  rate  will  tire  him,  but  which, 
without  their  aid,  can  not  fail  to  crush  him/' 

"  The  dealings  of  God  with  me  are  to  myself 
utterly  unintelligible.  I  have  never  met,  either  in 
books  or  in  conversation,  with  an  experience  at  all 
similar  to  my  own.     More  than  a  twelvemonth  has 


WESTON       LODGE. 
1  Ht.    RESIDENCE    OF   THE    LAJ'i.   WILLIAM    COWPEB,    ESQ 

Cheevei  s  Cowpei  p.  "^7  4 


southet's    comments.  275 

passed  since  I  began  to  hope  that,  having  walked 
the  whole  breadth  of  the  bottom  of  this  Red  Sea, 
I  was  beginning  to  climb  the  opposite  shore,  and 
I  prepared  tossing  the  song  of  Moses.  But  I  have 
been  disappointed  ;  those  hopes  have  been  blast- 
ed ;  those  comforts  have  been  wrested  from  me. 
I  could  not  be  so  duped,  even  by  the  Arch  Enemy 
himself,  as  to  be  made  to  question  the  divine  na- 
ture of  them  ;  but  I  have  been  made  to  believe 
(which  you  will  say  is  being  duped  still  more) 
that  God  gave  them  to  me  in  derision,  and  took 
them  away  in  vengeance.  Such,  however,  is  and 
has  been  my  persuasion  many  a  long  day,  and  when 
I  shall  think  on  that  subject  more  comfortably,  or, 
as  you  will  be  inclined  to  tell  me,  more  rationally 
and  scripturally,  I  know  not." 

Yet  it  is  just  about  this  time  that  Southey  un- 
dertakes to  say,  on  account  of  Cowper's  enjoyment 
of  the  society  of  Lady  Hesketh,  and  the  tone  of 
cheerfulness  in  his  letters,  and  the  absence  of  any 
marked  religious  strain,  that  Cowper  was  happier 
than  he  had  ever  been  since  the  days  of  his  youth  ! 
This  contains  a  covert  but  studied  depreciation  of 
the  brightness  and  blessedness  of  Cowper's  life  in 
the  happy  years  of  his  early  experience  in  Hun- 
tingdon and  Olney,  after  his  conversion.  It  re- 
minds us  of  Southey's  declaration  that  the  period 
when  Cowper  was  so  absorbed  in  religious  duties 
and  employments,  and  enjoyed  such  close  and  un- 


276 


IOUTHBY'8     CO  M  MR  NTS. 


interrupted  communion  with  his  God  and  Saviour, 
was  "preposterously  called  the  happy  period  of 
his  life."  Southey  had  also  remarked,  with  a 
similar  concealed  reference,  that  the  summer  of 
1781,  when  the  poet,  beneath  the  cloud  of  spiritual 
gloom,  was  engaged  upon  his  first  poetical  volume, 
driven  to  that  work,  as  he  himself  Baid,  by  mental 
anguish,  was  the  happiest  Cowper  ever  passed. 
Southey  even  intimated  that  the  tenor  of  Cowper's 
religious  life  previously,  so  absorbed  in  devotional 
ideas  and  pursuits,  had  tended  to  bring  hack  his 
madness,  and  was  one  exasperating  cause  of  the 
access  that  ensued  in  1773.  He  would  persuade 
the  reader  that  it  was  a  perilous  and  injudicious 
thing  in  Newton  to  have  engaged  his  friend  in 
such  a  deeply  interesting  employment  as  the  com- 
position of  the  "  Olney  Hymns  '"  and  he  quotes 
the  two  affecting  stanzas, 

"  Where  is  the  blessedness  I  knew,*' 

"  The  peaceful  hours  I  once  enjoyed, 
How  sweet  their  memory  still  1 
But  they  have  left  an  aching  void 
The  world  can  never  fill," 

as  a  proof  of  the  supposed  danger  of  a  return  to 
madness  ! 

Southey  also  declared,  in  reference  to  Cowper's 
religious  life  with  Newton,  that  "  the  course  of  life 


LETTER      TO      LADY      UF.s  K  E  T  H .        2 1  i 

into  which  Cowper  had  been  led  at  Olney,  tended 
to  alienate  him  from  the  friends  whom  he  loved 
best."  In  this  sentence  he  referred  partly  to  Lady 
Hesketh  and  her  family,  whose  correspondence  with 
Cowper  had  dropped,  apparently  because  on  Cow- 
per's  part  it  was  maintained  almost  solely  on  relig- 
ious subjects.  Southey  says  that  the  last  letter 
Lady  Hesketh  received  from  Cowper,  at  that  time, 
"  was  in  a  strain  of  that  melancholy  pietism  which 
casts  a  gloom  over  eveiy  thing,  and  which  seems 
at  once  to  chill  the  intellect  and  wither  the  affec- 
tions." That  we  may  know  what  it  is  that 
Southey  can  sneer  at  as  a  melancholy  pietism,  and 
what  it  is  that  in  his  view  casts  a  gloom  over  hu- 
man life,  and  chills  the  intellect  and  withers  the 
affections,  we  shall  quote  this  interesting  and  ad- 
mirable letter.  It  is  dated  January  30th,  1767, 
and  commences — 

"  My  dear  Lady  Hesketh: 

"  I  am  glatl  you  spent  your  summer  in  a  place 
so  agreeable  to  you.  As  to  me,  my  lot  is  cast  in 
a  country  where  we  have  neither  woods,  nor  com- 
mons, nor  pleasant  prospects  ;  all  is  flat  and  in- 
sipid ;  in  the  summer  adorned  only  with  blue  wil- 
lows, and  in  the  winter  covered  with  a  flood.  Such 
it  is  at  present  :  our  bridges  shaken  almost  in 
pieces  ;  our  poor  willows  torn  away  by  the  roots, 
and  our  haycocks  almost  afloat.     Yet  even  here  we 


'278        LETTER     TO     LADY     HLSKETH. 

are  happy  ;  at  least  I  am  so ;  and  if  I  have  no 
groves  with  benches  conveniently  disposed,  nor 
commons  overgrown  with  thyme  to  regale  me, 
neither  do  I  want  them.  You  thought  to  make 
my  mouth  water  at  the  charms  of  Taplow,  but 
you  see  you  are  disappointed. 

"  My  dear  cousin  !  I  am  a  living  man  ;  and  I 
can  never  reflect  that  I  am  so,  without  recollect- 
ing at  the  same  time  that  I  have  infinite  cause  of 
thanksgiving  and  joy.  This  makes  every  place 
delightful  to  me  where  I  can  have  leisure  to  medi- 
tate upon  those  mercies  by  which  I  live,  and  in- 
dulge a  vein  of  gratitude  to  that  gracious  God  who 
has  snatched  me  like  a  brand  out  of  the  burning. 
Where  had  I  been,  but  for  His  forbearance  and 
long-suffering  ? — even  with  those  who  shall  never 
see  His  face  in  hope,  to  whom  the  name  of  Jesus, 
by  a  just  judgment  of  God,  is  become  a  torment 
instead  of  a  remedy.  Thoughtless  and  inconsider- 
ate wretch  that  I  was  !  I  lived  as  if  I  had  been 
my  own  creator,  and  could  continue  my  existence 
to  what  length  and  in  what  state  I  pleased  ;  as  if 
dissipation  was  the  narrow  way  which  leads  to  life, 
and  a  neglect  of  the  blessed  God  would  certainly 
end  in  the  enjoyment  of  Him.  But  it  pleased  the 
Almighty  to  convince  me  of  my  fatal  error  before 
it  indeed  became  such ;  to  convince  me  that  in 
communion  with  Him  we  may  find  that  happiness 
for  which  we  were  created,  and  that  a  life  without 


LETTER  TO  LADY  HESKETH.    279 

God  in  the  world  is  a  life  of  trash,  and  the  most 
miserable  delusion.  Oh,  how  had  my  own  corrup- 
tions and  Satan  together  blinded  and  befooled 
me  !  I  thought  the  service  of  my  Maker  and  Ke- 
deemer  a  tedious  and  unnecessary  labor  ;  I  despised 
those  who  thought  otherwise  ;  and  if  they  spoke 
of  the  love  of  God,  I  pronounced  them  madmen. 
As  if  it  were  possible  to  serve  and  love  the  Al- 
mighty being  too  much,  with  whom  we  must  dwell 
forever,  or  be  forever  miserable  without  Him. 

"  Would  I  were  the  only  one  that  had  ever 
dreamed  this  dream  of  folly  and  wickedness  !  but 
the  world  is  filled  with  such,  who  furnish  a  con- 
tinual proof  of  God's  almost  unprovokable  mercy  ; 
who  set  up  for  themselves  in  a  spirit  of  independ- 
ence upon  Him  who  made  them,  and  yet  enjoy 
that  life  by  His  bounty  which  they  abuse  to  His 
dishonor.  You  remember  me,  my  dear  cousin,  one 
of  this  trifling  and  deluded  multitude.  Great  and 
grievous  afflictions  were  applied  to  awaken  me  out 
of  this  deep  sleep,  and,  under  the  influence  of  Di- 
vine grace,  have,  I  trust,  produced  the  effect  for 
which  they  were  intended.  If  the  way  in  which  I 
had  till  that  time  proceeded  had  been  according  to 
the  word  and  will  of  God,  God  had  never  interposed 
to  change  it.  That  He  did  is  certain ;  though 
others  may  not  be  so  sensible  of  that  interposition, 
yet  I  am  sure  of  it.  To  think  as  I  once  did,  there- 
fore, must  be  wrong.     Whether  to  think  as  I  now 


n 


L;80         L  B  T  T  E  B     I  0     LAD  Y     II  K  B  K  E  T  JI . 

do  be  right  or  not,  is  a  question  that  can  only  be 
decided  by  the  Word  of  God  ;  at  least  it  is  capa- 
ble of  no  other  decision  till  the  Great  Day  deter- 
mine it  finally.  I  see,  and  see  plainly,  in  every 
page  and  period  of  that  Word,  rny  former  heedless- 
ness and  forgetfulness  of  God  condemned.  I  see  a 
life  of  union  and  communion  with  Him  inculcated 
and  enjoined  as  an  essential  requisite.  To  this, 
therefore,  it  must  be  the  business  of  our  lives  to 
attain,  and  happy  is  he  who  makes  the  greatest 
progress  in  it. 

"  This  js  no  fable,  but  it  is  our  life.  If  we 
stand  at  the  left  hand  of  Christ  while  we  live,  we 
shall  stand  there  too  in  the  judgment.  The  sepa- 
ration must  be  begun  in  this  world,  which  in  that 
day  shall  be  made  forever.  My  dear  cousin  !  may 
the  Son  of  God,  who  shall  then  assign  to  each  his 
everlasting  station,  direct  and  settle  all  your 
thoughts  upon  this  important  subject.  Whether 
you  must  think  as  I  do,  or  not,  is  not  the  ques- 
tion ;  but  it  is  indeed  an  awful  question  whether 
the  Word  of  God  be  the  rule  of  our  actions,  and 
his  Spirit  the  principle  by  which  we  act.  '  Search 
the  Scriptures  ;  for  in  them  ye  believe  ye  have 
eternal  life.'  This  letter  will  be  Mr.  Howe's  com- 
panion to  London.  I  wish  his  company  were  more 
worthy  of  him,  but  it  is  not  fit  it  should  be  less. 
I  pray  God  to  bless  you,  and  remember  you  where 


southey's    comments.  281 

I  never  forget  those  I  love.     Yours  and  Sir  Thomas's 
affectionate  friend,  Wm.  Cowper." 

If  this,  in  Southey's  judgment,  be  "  melancholy 
pietism,"  what  would  be  his  imagination  of  sin- 
cere piety  ?  It  is  melancholy  to  think  that  his 
own  state  of  mind  was  such,  that  the  genuine  re- 
ligion in  this  letter  seemed  to  him  to  cover  life 
with  gloom,  chilling  the  intellect  and  withering 
the  affections  !  Here,  Southey  remarks,  the  cor- 
respondence with  Lady  Hesketh  appears  to  have 
ceased  ;  "  he  could  take  no  pleasure  at  this  time 
in  any  other  strain,  and  she  probably  thought  that 
it  was  dangerous  for  him  to  dwell  constantly  upon 
this."  Southey  may  have  thought  so  himself,  but 
we  would  charitably  hope  that  Lady  Hesketh  did 
not.  At  this  time  Cowper's  mind  was  acting  in 
the  clear  light  of  heaven.  Some  sixteen  years 
afterward  the  correspondence  with  Lady  Hesketh 
was  renewed  ;  but  Cowper's  mind  being  then  un- 
der the  gloom  of  a  religious  despair,  he  could  not 
write  upon  religious  subjects  as  he  had  formerly 
done  ;  on  the  contrary,  he  speaks  of  his  former 
zeal  as  having  perhaps  proved  troublesome  to  her, 
and  assures  her  that  it  was  no  longer  his  practice 
to  force  the  subject  of  evangelical  truth  upon  any. 
Southey  calls  this  letter  a  confession  of  indiscreet 
zeal,  and  remarks  that  it  shows  what  the  change 
in  Cowper's  own  religious  views  had  been,  noting 


282  RELIGIOUS     CONVERSATION. 

with  pleasure  the  altered  tone,  as  giving  satisfac- 
tory evidence  of  a  saner  and  much  more  desirable 
state  of  mind.  Lady  Hesketh  had  written  to  Cowper, 
informing  him  that  General  Cowper  himself  was 
expecting  to  visit  him,  and,  it  would  seem,  had 
suggested  some  hints  as  to  the  propriety  of  avoid- 
ing any  such  religious  conversation  as  might,  in 
Southey's  expression,  occasion  any  uncomfortable 
feeling  between  them. 

If  Lady  Hesketh  had  been  aware  how  changed 
a  being  even  a  Christian  must  be,  at  the  different 
poles  of  hope  and  despair,  she  would  have  had  no 
fear  of  discomfort  from  the  prevalence  of  religious 
and  evangelical  themes.  So  profoundly  true  is  the 
conclusion  involved  in  the  prayer  of  David,  "  Ke- 
store  unto  me  the  joy  of  Thy  salvation,  and  up- 
hold me  by  Thy  free  Spirit :  then  will  I  teach 
transgressors  Thy  ways,  and  sinners  shall  be  con- 
verted unto  Thee."  When  Cowper  possessed  the 
joy  of  God's  salvation,  he  could  speak  upon  that 
theme,  and  it  was  the  joy  and  the  dictate  of  his 
heart  to  do  so  ;  but  he  could  not  do  it  in  gloom, 
he  could  not  do  it  unless  God  opened  his  lips. 
"  Open  Thou  my  lips,  and  my  mouth  shall  show 
forth  Thy  praise."  In  that  gloomy  and  silent 
state  Cowper  had  now  remained  so  many  years, 
that  it  is  not  strange  that  Ins  former  freedom  and 
faithfulness  began  to  appear  somewhat  over-zealous 
in  his  own  sight.     Accordingly  he  said  as  much  to 


RELIGIOUS     CONVERSATION.  283 

Lady  Hesketh,  to  take  away  all  her  anxiety  about 
his  being  intrusive  on  the  subject  with  General 
Oowper. 

"As  to  the  affair  of  religious  conversation/'  said 
he,  "  fear  me  not  lest  I  should  trespass  upon  his 
peace  in  that  way.  Your  views,  my  dear,  upon  the 
subject  of  a  proper  conduct  in  that  particular  are 
mine  also.  When  I  left  St.  Albans,  I  left  it  under 
impressions  of  the  existence  of  a  God,  and  of  the  truth 
of  Scripture,  that  I  had  never  felt  before.  I  had  un- 
speakable delight  in  the  discovery,  and  was  impa- 
tient to  communicate  a  pleasure  to  others  that  I 
found  so  superior  to  every  thing  that  bears  the 
name.  This  eagerness  of  spirit,  natural  to  persons 
newly  informed,  and  the  less  to  be  wondered  at  in 
me,  who  had  just  emerged  from  the  horrors  of  de- 
spair, made  me  imprudent,  and  I  doubt  not 
troublesome  to  many.  Forgetting  that  I  had  not 
those  blessings  at  my  command,  which  it  is  God's 
peculiar  prerogative  to  impart,  spiritual  light  and 
affections,  I  required  in  effect  of  all  with  whom  I 
conversed,  that  they  should  see  with  my  eyes  ;  and 
stood  amazed  that  the  Gospel,  which  with  me  was 
all  in  all,  should  meet  with  opposition,  or  should 
occasion  disgust  in  any.  But  the  Gospel  could  not 
be  the  word  of  God  if  it  did  not ;  for  it  foretells 
its  own  reception  among  men,  and  describes  it  as 
exactly  such.  Good  is  intended,  but  harm  is  done 
too  often  by  the  zeal  with  which  I  was  at  that  time 


284  RELIGIOUS     CONVERSATION. 

animated.  But  as  in  affairs  of  this  life,  so  in  re- 
ligious concerns  likewise,  experience  begets  some 
wisdom  in  all  who  are  not  incapable  of  being 
taught.  I  do  not  now,  neither  have  I  for  a  long 
time  made  it  my  practice  to  force  the  subject  of 
evangelical  truth  on  any.  I  received  it  not  from 
man  myself,  neither  can  any  man  receive  it  from 
me.  God  is  light,  and  from  Him  all  light  must 
come ;  to  His  teaching,  therefore,  I  leave  those 
whom  I  was  once  so  alert  to  instruct  myself.  If  a 
man- ask  my  opinion,  or  calls  for  an  account  of  my 
faith,  he  shall  have  it;  otherwise  I  trouble  him 
not.  Pulpits  for  preaching  ;  and  the  parlor,  the 
garden,  and  the  walk  abroad,  for  friendly  and 
agreeable  conversation." 

Now  we  hardly  know  of  a  more  melancholy  let- 
ter from  Cowper  in  the  whole  collection  of  his  cor- 
respondence than  this.  It  could  not  have  been 
Cowper's  deliberate  opinion  that  the  heavenly 
themes  of  the  pulpit  are  not  fit  for  friendly  and 
and  agreeable  conversation,  nor  that  the  tender, 
affectionate,  and  faithful  application  of  such 
themes  may  not  be  made,  without  any  intrusive- 
ness,  in  private  to  the  conscience.  The  tone  of  a 
part  of  this  letter  painfully  resembles  that  of 
Southey's  own  comments.  But  Cowper,  when  he 
wrote  thus,  had  long  been  dwelling  in  the  mere 
twilight  of  a  religious  gloom,  and  not  in  the  enjoy- 
ment of  his  former  sweet  religious  fervor  and  hope. 


IRRELIGIOUS     CRITICISMS.  285 

From  such  a  disastrous  twilight,  between  the  day- 
light and  the  darkness,  he  looked  back  to  his  form- 
er happy,  animated,  heavenly  state  of  mind,  and 
described  it  under  the  false  coloring  that  now  fell 
upon  it  from  the  habit  of  his  own  despair.  But 
these  were  not  his  views  in  that  joyful  period  when 
his  earnest  conversations  with  his  own  beloved 
brother  were  made  so  eminently  the  means  of 
bringing  him  also  to  the  knowledge  of  the  truth  as 
it  is  in  Jesus  ;  when  his  conversation  and  example 
shed  such  light  and  grace  also  upon  the  dear  circle 
in  which  he  moved  in  Olney,  and  when  he  com- 
posed, those  hymns,  that  have  been  God's  manna 
to  many  a  smitten  soul  in  the  wilderness,  and  will 
continue  to  be  sung  by  the  Church  of  God  till  time 
shall  be  no  longer.  Accordingly,  from  Cowper  in 
gloom  and  darkness,  we  would  appeal  to  Cowper 
walking  in  the  light  of  his  Kedeemer's  countenance  ; 
nay,  we  may  appeal  from  Cowper's  letter,  to  the 
tenor  of  his  own  exquisitely  devout  and  beautiful 
poem  on  Conversation  ;  and  from  the  irreligious 
criticisms  of  the  man  of  literature  merely,  we 
would  appeal  to  the  judgment  of  a  mind  impressed 
with  the  value  of  the  soul,  happy  in  the  presence 
of  Christ,  and  alive  to  a  sense  of  eternal  realities. 

Cowper's  autobiography  was  written  in  the  un- 
clouded exercise  of  his  reason,  and  with  all  the 
animated  fervor  and  affection  of  a  grateful  heart, 
enjoying  and  praising  God.     The  description  of 


IK  R  E  I.  I  G  I O  U  I     CRITICISMS. 

his  experience  at  Bt  Al ban's,  in  a  letter  to  Lady 
Hesketh  many  years  afterward,  and  the  review  of 
his  ardor,  in  the  letter  jnst  quoted,  were  composed 
beneath  the  darkness  of  his  long  religious  gloom. 
Yet  Southey  has  the  hardihood  to  remark  that 
"  the  different  state  of  mind  in  which  Cowper 
described  his  malady  at  Olney  to  Lady  Hesketh, 
from  that  in  which  he  drew  up  the  dreadful  nar- 
rative of  his  madness  in  the  Temple,  and  of  his 
recovery  at  St.  Albans,  might  induce,  if  not  a  be- 
lief of  his  perfect  restoration,  a  reasonable  hope  of 
it.  In  the  former  instance  (his  conversion)  he 
fully  believed  that  the  happy  change  which  had 
taken  place  in  him  was  supernatural ;  and  of  this 
both  Mr.  Xewton  and  Mrs.  Unwin  were  so  thor- 
oughly persuaded  that  many  months  elapsed  after 
the  second  attack,  violent  as  the  access  was,  be- 
fore they  could  bring  themselves  to  ask  Dr.  Cot- 
ton's advice.  They  thought  that  the  disease 
the  work  of  the  Enemy,  and  that  nothing  less 
than  Omnipotence  could  free  him  from  it.  Means 
they  allowed  were  in  general  not  only  lawful  but 
expedient  ;  but  his  was  a  peculiar  and  exempt 
case,  in  which  they  were  convinced  that  the  1 
Jehovah  would  be  alone  exalted  when  the  day  of 
deliverance  was  come.  Cowper  had  now  learned 
t<~>  take  a  saner  view  of  his  own  condition." 

It  is  painful  to  read  such  passages.     They  in- 
dicate, taken  in  connection  with  others,  an  almost 


PRESENCE     OF     THE     TEMPTER.        287 

malignant  hostility  against  the  manifestations  of 
Divine  grace,  or  rather  against  the  belief  that  such 
exercises  as  Cowper  passed  through  are  the  work 
of  Divine  grace  in  the  heart.  Southey  sneers  at 
the  supposition  of  any  thing  supernatural  in  Cow- 
per's  happy  change,  and  of  course  much  more  at 
the  idea  of  there  being  any  thing  subter-neituial, 
any  thing  of  the  workings  of  "  the  Enemy/'  in  his 
malady.  But  there  are  not  wanting  passages  in 
Cowper's  own  letters  that  look  as  if  his  mind  ivere 
sometimes  engaged  in  murky  encounters  with  the 
Prince  of  Darkness  ;  and  it  would  be  an  interesting 
investigation  to  trace,  in  such  a  case,  the  evidences 
of  the  possible  presence  and  power  of  such  a 
Tempter. 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

COMPARISON   OF    COWPER'S    EARLY   SORROWS   AND   IIIS   LATE. — HIS 
EARLIEST    POETRY. — DIFFERENCE     BETWEEN     SYMPATHETIC    AND 
PERSONAL  SUFFERING. — POEM  IN  THE  INSANE  ASYLUM  COMP 
WITH   THAT   IN   THE   ASYLUM    OF   GOD'S   GRACE. 

We  are  approaching  now  a  very  sad  and  gloomy 
period  in  Cowper's  mental  sufferings,  when  the 
fiends  that  had  tracked  his  steps,  or  brushed  past 
him  with  their  dragon  wings,  or  stood  afar  off  and 
mocked  him,  seemed  to  close  with  him  in  a  long 
and  dreadful  conflict.  These  terrors  were  real ; 
and  one  need  only  compare  the  groans  of  a  wounded 
spirit  wrung  out  from  his  soul  in  these  seasons  of 
such  painful  endurance,  with  the  tones  of  early 
sorrow  from  disappointed  love  expressed  in  the 
verses  of  his  youth,  to  feel  the  tremendous  differ- 
ence between  any  mere  earthly  disappointment  or 
grief,  and  the  spiritual  despair  or  darkness  that 
separates  the  soul  from  God.  Yet  those  early 
poems  to  the  object  of  his  youthful  affections  were 
beautiful,  natural,  unambitious,  presenting  plain 
indications  of  his  genius  ;  as  indeed  was  the  case 


EARLY     POEMS.  289 

with  the  very  earliest  of  his  compositions  in  poet- 
ical form  known  to  have  been  preserved  and  iden- 
fied  ;  that  admirable  fragment  written  at  Bath  on 
finding  the  heel  of  a  shoe,  in  1748,  when  he  had 
come  to  the  age  of  seventeen.  The  characteristics 
of  the  future  poet  of  "  The  Task"  are  there  so 
plainly  developed,  that  a  page  cut  from  that  poem 
itself  would  not  have  a  more  manifest  resemblance ; 
a  very  singular  phenomenon  indeed  ;  the  style,  the 
humor,  the  language,  the  rhythm,  all  plainly  fore- 
shadowed, and  the  identity  of  manner  maintained 
through  the  interval  (in  his  case  no  small  time  so 
confused  and  chaotic)  between  seventeen  and 
fifty. 

In  one  of  his  letters  he  speaks  of  having  written 
ballads  at  a  period  as  early  as  the  age  of  fourteen, 
having  received  a  taste  for  that  form  of  poetry 
from  his  own  father,  who  himself  was  the  author 
of  several  pieces.  He  also  tried  his  hand  at  some 
of  the  Elegies  of  Tibullus  ;  but  none  of  those  pieces 
he  could  afterward  remember  or  recover.  In  one 
of  his  poetical  epistles  to  Miss  Theodora  Cowper 
in  1755,  there  occur  the  following  lines,  which 
seem  to  have  been  written  in  allusion  to  the  re- 
fusal of  her  father  to  grant  Iris  sanction  for  their 
engagement,  his  reasons  for  the  inflexible  determ- 
ination being  first,   their  degree  of  relationship, 

and  second,  Cowper's  own  want  of  fortune  for  their 
13 


290  EARLY      POEMS. 

maintenance  in  a  style  corresponding  to  their 
family  circle  and  rank. 

Ye  who  from  wealth  the  ill-grounded  title  boast 
To  claim  whatever  beauty  charms  you  most : 
Ye  sons  of  fortune,  who  consult  alone 
Her  parent's  will,  regardless  of  her  own ; 
Know  that  a  love  like  ours,  a  generous  flame, 
No  wealth  can  purchase,  and  no  power  reclaim. 
The  soul's  affection  can  be  only  given 
Free,  unextorted,  as  the  grace  of  heaven. 

One  year  before  this,  Cowper's  Epistle  to  his 
friend  Lloyd  speaks  of  the  fierce  banditti  of  his 
gloomy  thoughts  led  on  by  spleen  ;  and  beyond 
question  the  disappointment  in  regard  to  his  af- 
fections, notwithstanding  the  consolation  of  know- 
ing that  those  affections  were  returned,  inflicted 
upon  him  no  transitory  nor  trifling  sorrow.  In 
1759  we  trace  his  easy  style  in  two  of  the  Satires 
of  Horace, 

In  dear  Matt  Prior's  easy  jingle, 

one  of  them  being  the  humorous  description  of  the 
journey  to  Brundusium.  In  1762,  just  before  the 
painful  conflict  and  complication  of  distresses  in 
regard  to  his  examination  for  the  clerkship,  which 
brought  on  the  first  insanity,  we  have  a  poem  ad- 
dressed to  Miss  Macartney,  afterward  Mrs.  G-re- 
ville,  in  which  occur  the  following  beautiful  verses 
in  the  most  perfect  manner  of  many  of  his  later 
minor  pieces  : 


EARLY      POEMS.  291 

Tis  woven  in  the  world's  great  plan, 

And  fixed  by  heaven's  decree, 
That  all  the  true  delights  of  man 

Should  spring  from  Sympathy. 

'Tis  nature  bids,  and  while  the  laws 

Of  nature  we  retain, 
Our  self-approving  bosom  draws 

A  pleasure  from  its  pain. 

Thus  grief  itself  has  comforts  dear, 

The  sordid  never  know, 
And  ecstasy  attends  the  tear, 

When  virtue  bids  it  flow. 

For  when  it  streams  from  that  pure  source, 

No  bribes  the  heart  can  win 
To  check,  or  alter  from  its  course, 

The  luxury  within. 

Still  may  my  melting  bosom  cleave 

To  sufferings  not  my  own, 
And  still  the  sigh  responsive.heave 

"Where'er  is  heard  a  groan. 

So  Pity  shall  take  Virtue's  part, 

Her  natural  ally, 
And  fashioning  my  softened  heart, 

Prepare  it  for  the  sky. 

Beautiful  stanzas,  and  the  sentiments  most  gen- 
erous and  true  !  And  yet,  it  was  not,  after  all,  in 
this  way  of  discipline,  that  Cowper's  heart  was  to 
be  thoroughly  subdued  and  purified,  and  prepared 
for  a  better  world.  The  deepest  natural  sensibili- 
ties to  other's  woes  may  exist,  without  any  sense 
of  one's  own  guilt  and  misery,  and  without  tending 


292  STANZAS     IN      THE     ASYLUM. 

to  produce  such  a  sense.  Nay,  the  very  fact  of  pity 
taking  virtue's  part,  may  delude  and  delight  the 
poor  ignorant  sinful  heart  in  regard  to  its  own 
state,  and  make  the  owner  think  himself  very  near 
heaven,  even  by  nature,  needing  nothing  supernat- 
ural to  bring  him  there.  The  being  cut  out  of  the 
olive  which  is  wild  by  nature,  and  grafted  into  the 
True  Olive-tree,  is  declared  by  Paul  to  be  a  pro- 
cess contrary  to  nature,  and  not  merely  above  na- 
ture. And  it  is  a  process,  at  least  in  the  first 
stages  of  cutting  out,  attended  with  much  pain 
and  conflict. 

The  very  next  poem  composed  by  Cowper  after 
that  from  which  the  preceding  verses  are  quoted, 
exhibits  him  suddenly  plunged  from  that  state  of 
quiet  in  which  he  could  indulge  "  the  luxury  of 
sympathy  within,"  to  the  bottomless  depths  of  a 
personal  despair  and  suffering.  It  was  after  his 
first  attempt  at  suicide,  and  just  before  his  re- 
moval to  St.  Albans,  that  Cowper  composed  the 
following  wild  and  terrible  monody  of  self-con- 
demnation and  vengeance.  No  convicted  criminal, 
he  said,  ever  feared  death  more,  or  experienced 
more  horrible  dismay  of  soul,  with  conscience  scar- 
ing him,  and  the  avenger  of  blood  pursuing  him. 


Hatred  and  vengeance,  my  eternnl  portion. 
Scarce  can  endure  delay  of  execution, 
Wait  with  impatient  readiness  to  seize  my 

Soul  in  a  moment. 


MONODY      AT     ST.      ALBANS.  2V3 

Damn'd  below  Judas,  more  abhorred  than  he  was, 
Who  for  a  few  pence  sold  his  holy  Master ! 
Twice  betrayed,  Jesus,  ine  the  last  delinquent, 

Deems  the  profanest. 

Man  disavows,  and  Deity  disowns  me. 
Hell  might  afford  my  miseries  a  shelter ; 
Therefore  hell  keeps  her  ever-hungry  mouths  all 
Bolted  against  me. 

Hard  lot !  encompassed  with  a  thousand  dangers ; 
"Weary,  faint,  trembling  with  a  thousand  terrors, 
I  'm  called,  if  vanquished,  to  receive  a  sentence 

Worse  than  Abiram's. 

Him  the  vindictive  rod  of  angry  Justice 

Sent  quick  and  howling  to  the  center  headlong. 

I,  fed  with  judgment,  in  a  fleshly  tomb  am 

Buried  above  ground. 


Over  this  Bridge  of  Sighs,  where  the  smoke  and 
flame  from  the  gulf  of  perdition  and  despair  roll 
and  shoot  across  the  pathway,  we  pass  into  another 
experience,  as  if  we  were  transported  from  the  gates 
of  hell  to  the  threshold,  and  the  company,  and  the 
melodies  of  heaven.  The  very  next  efforts  of  Cow- 
per's  genius,  and  expression  of  his  feelings,  con- 
veyed the  gratitude  and  joy  of  his  soul  in  those 
sacred  hymns,  for  the  composition  of  which  these 
mental  sufferings  and  gloom,  and  the  faith  in 
Christ  by  which,  through  the  grace  of  Christ,  he 
emerged  from  them,  were  the  preparation.  The 
second  of  them  we  place  here  in  vivid  contrast 
with  the  previous  stanzas  that  were  darkening  with 


294  P  R  A  Y  E  B     A  N  D      PRAISE. 

such  lurid  fire,  to  note  that  even  the  sorrow  and 
despair  which  constituted  so  much  of  Cowper's  ex- 
perience afterward  for  many  years,  breathed  rather 
the  spirit  of  that  sweet  hymn  of  gratitude  and 
grace,  than  the  tones  of  a  tortured  conscience, 
without  which  despair  is  but  a  dream  ;  the  spirit 
of  submission  instead  of  the  sense  of  retribution, 
characterized  his  gloom. 

Far  from  the  world.  0  Lord,  I  flee, 

From  strife  and  tumult  far, 
From  scenes  where  Satan  wages  still 

His  most  successful  war. 

The  calm  retreat,  the  silent  shade, 

"With  prayer  and  praise  agree; 
And  seem,  by  Thy  sweet  bounty,  made 

For  those  who  follow  Thee. 

There,  if  Thy  Spirit  touch  the  soul 

And  grace  her  mean  abode, 
Oh.  with  what  peace,  and  joy,  and  love, 

She  communes  with  her  God  1 

There  like  the  nightingale  she  pours 

Her  solitary  lays : 
Nor  asks  a  witness  of  her  song, 

Nor  thirsts  for  human  praise. 

Author  and  guardian  of  my  life, 

Sweet  source  of  light  divine, 
And  (all  harmonious  names  in  one) 

My  Saviour,  thou  art  mine  I 

What  thanks  I  owe  Thee,  and  what  love, 

A  boundless,  endless  store, 
Shall  echo  through  the  realms  above, 

When  time  shall  bo  no  more. 


PRAYER     AND      PRAISE.  295 

Now  the  great  superiority  of  this  exquisite  ef- 
fusion over  all  the  previous  productions  of  Cowper, 
can  be  traced  to  but  just  one  cause,  the  regenera- 
tion of  his  being  by  the  grace  of  his  Redeemer,  and 
the  baptism  of  all  his  faculties  in  the  light  of  life. 
And  before  we  pursue  the  deepening  of  his  mental 
gloom  till  finally  the  sun  of  his  existence  itself 
went  down  in  darkness,  we  wish  to  note  the  infinite 
difference,  upon  the  mind  as  well  as  heart,  between 
the  effect  of  a  troubled  and  despairing  state  of  the 
conscience,  and  that  of  a  mere  simple  destitution 
of  hope,  under  a  hallucination  such  as  Cowper 
was  afflicted  with  ;  the  imagination,  not  that  God 
was  angry  with  him,  nor  that  his  sins  had  not 
been  forgiven,  nor  that  his  heart  was  in  rebellion 
against  God,  but  that  God,  from  some  inexplicable 
necessity  in  His  own  attributes,  had  banished  him 
forever  from  his  presence.  Cowper's  conscience 
was  not  distressed,  but  was  at  peace,  and  could 
not  be  otherwise,  for  his  heart  was  profoundly  sub- 
missive to  God's  will.  And  passing  strange  it  was 
that  these  two  things  could  exist  together,  love  and 
despair,  submission  and  the  belief  of  being  sen- 
tenced to  eternal  perdition  ;  yet  they  did,  and 
Cowper  exhibited  the  marvelous  phenomenon  of  a 
soul  enriched  with  all  pious  feeling,  and  exhibiting 
the  results  of  it  in  the  most  exquisite  productions 
of  sanctified  genius,  yet  seemingly  in  the  darkness 
of  such  despair.     But  if  that  despair  had  been  the 


296  AN     ANGKY     CONSCIENCE. 

fire  of  an  angry  conscience,  the  only  exercise  of  his 
genius  would  have  been  the  repetition  of  those 
awful  strains  of 

Hatred  and  vengeance,  ray  eternal  portion ! 

The  torture  and  despair  of  an  angry  conscience 
are  realities  that  no  social  pleasantry  can  relieve, 
nor  wit  nor  affection  of  sympathizing  friends  dimin- 
ish. Nor  could  any  of  Cowper's  literary  occupa- 
tions have  procured  him  any  intervals  of  forgetful- 
ness  or  peace,  if  the  cause  of  his  suffering  had  been 
a  conscience  at  war  against  himself,  and  a  heart 
against  his  Maker.  But  with  "  the  heart  sprinkled 
from  an  evil  conscience,"  and  in  humble  submis- 
sion to  the  will  of  God,  even  the  delusions  of  in- 
sanity sometimes  passed  before  him  as  a  dream, 
and  he  could  enjoy  existence  in  spite  of  them. 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

HIS  MOTHER'S  PICTURE. — LETTER  TO  LADY  HESKETH. — PLEASANT 
DWELLING  AT  WESTON. — LETTERS  TO  NEWTON. — CHEERFULNESS. 
— COWPER'S  DIFFERENT  VIEWS  OF  HIS  OWN  CONDITION. — STYLE 
OF  DIVINE  PROVIDENCE. — CARE   OF  MRS.  UNWIN. 

The  tenderest,  most  affectionate,  and  pathetic 
of  Cowper's  poems  were  among  the  last ;  as  he  grew 
older  his  heart  seemed  to  grow  younger,  notwith- 
standing the  weary  melancholy  that  oppressed 
him.  It  was  not  till  1790  that  he  received  the 
gift  of  his  mother's  picture  from  his  cousin  Mrs. 
Bodham,  and  the  letter  in  which  he  acknowledged 
it,  is  one  of  the  sweetest  he  ever  wrote,  as  the 
poem  in  reference  to  it  was  one  of  the  most  ex- 
quisite expressions  of  his  genius. 

"  My  dearest  Rose,  whom  I  thought  withered 

and  fallen  from  the  stalk,  but  whom  I  find  still 

alive  :  nothing  could  give  me  greater  pleasure  than 

to  know  it,  and  to  learn  it  from  yourself.     I  loved 

you  dearly  when  you  were  a  child,  and  love  you  not 

a  jot  the  less  for  having  ceased  to  be  so.     Every 

creature  that  bears  any  affinity  to  my  mother  is 

dear  to  me.  and  you,  the  daughter  of  her  brother, 
13* 


298  L  E  I  I  L  k     v  M    I  HI     Oil  1 

are  but  one  remove  distant  from  her ;  I  love  you, 
therefore,  and  love  you  much,  both  for  her  sake 
and  for  your  own.  The  world  could  not  have 
furnished  you  with  a  present  so  acceptable  to  me 
as  the  picture  which  you  have  so  kindly  sent  me. 
I  received  it  the  night  before  last,  and  viewed  it 
with  a  trepidation  of  nerves  and  spirits  somewhat 
akin  to  what  I  should  have  felt,  had  the  dear 
original  presented  herself  to  my  embraces.  I 
kissed  it,  and  hung  it  where  it  is  the  last  object 
that  I  see  at  night,  and  of  course  the  first  on 
which  my  eyes  open  in  the  morning.  She  died 
when  I  had  completed  my  sixth  year,  yet  I  re- 
member her  well,  and  am  an  ocular  witness  of  the 
great  fidelity  of  the  copy.  I  remember,  too,  a 
multitude  of  the  maternal  tendernesses  which  I 
received  from  her,  and  which  have  endeared  her 
memory  to  me  beyond  expression.  There  is  in 
me,  I  believe,  more  of  the  Donne  than  of  the 
Cowper,  and  though  I  love  all  of  both  names,  and 
have  a  thousand  reasons  to  love  those  of  my  own 
name,  yet  I  feel  the  bond  of  nature  draws  me 
vehemently  to  your  side.  I  was  thought,  in  the 
days  of  my  childhood,  much  to  resemble  my 
mother,  and  in  my  natural  temper,  of  which,  at 
the  age  of  fifty-eight,  I  must  be  supposed  a  com- 
petent judge,  can  trace  both  her  and  my  late 
uncle,  your  father.  Somewhat  of  his  irritability, 
and  a  little,  I  would  hope,  both  of  his  and  of  her 


ul'     Hid     Mo  T  11  £  B* 8     PIOTUBS.        299 

(I  know  not  what  to  call  it,  without  seeming  to 
praise  myself,  which  is  not  my  intention,  but  in 
speaking  to  you,  I  will  even  speak  out,  and  say) 
good  nature.  Add  to  all  this,  I  deal  much  in 
poetry,  as  did  our  venerable  ancestor,  the  dean  of 
St.  Paul's,*  and  I  think  I  shall  have  proved  myself 
a  Donne  at  all  points.  The  truth  is,  that  what- 
ever I  am,  I  love  you  all." 

Cowper  wrote  also  to  Mrs.  King  a  few  days 
after  the  letter  to  his  cousin,  referring  to  the  same 
picture  of  his  mother,  and  saying  :  "I  remember 
her  perfectly,  find  the  picture  a  strong  likeness  of 
her,  and  because  her  memory  has  been  ever  pre- 
cious to  me,  have  written  a  pcem  on  the  receipt 
of  it ;  a  poem  which,  one  excepted,  I  had  more 
pleasure  in  writing  than  any  that  I  ever  wrote. 
That  one  was  addressed  to  a  lady  whom  I  expect 
in  a  few  minutes  to  come  down  to  breakfast,  and 
who  has  supplied  to  me  the  place  of  my  own 
mother— my  own  invaluable  mother — these  six- 
and-twenty  years.  Some  sons  may  be  said  to 
have  had  many  fathers,  but  a  plurality  of  mothers 
is  not  common." 

This  latter  poem  (the  Sonnet  to  Mrs.  Unwin), 
and  the  lines  on  his  mother's  picture,  may  be 
perused  together  ;  but  only  Cowper  could  under- 
stand  what  himself  alone  had  experienced,  the 

*  Dr.  John  Donne,  the  celebrated  diviue  and  poet,  born  1573, 
died  1631. 


300  SONNET     TO     MARY. 

similarity  and  yet  the  difference  between  the  gush 
of  tender  emotion  with  which  he  penned  the  one 
and  the  other.  The  sonnet  to  Mary  is  so  perfect 
in  its  beauty  that  it  could  not  but  be  universally 
admired  ;  but  the  lines  to  the  memory  of  his 
mother  go  down  as  deep  into  other  hearts  also,  as 
the  love  that  inspired  them  in  the  depths  of  his 
own. 

Mary !  I  want  a  lyre  with  other  strings  ; 
Such  aid  from  Heaven  as  some  have  feigned  they  drew, 
An  eloquence  scarce  given  to  mortals,  new, 

And  undebased  by  praise  of  meaner  things ! 

That  ere  through  age  or  woe  I  shed  my  wings, 
I  may  record  thy  worth  with  honor  due, 
In  verse  as  musical  as  thou  art  true, 

Verse  that  immortalizes  whom  it  sings. 
But  thou  hast  little  need ;  there  is  a  book, 

By  seraphs  writ  with  beams  of  heavenly  light. 
On  which  the  eyes  of  God  not  rarely  look, 

A  chronicle  of  actions  just  and  bright. 
There  all  thy  deeds,  my  faithful  Mary,  shine ; 
And  since  thou  own'st  that  praise,  I  spare  thee  mine. 

The  change  from  this  poem  to  the  lines  on  his 
mother's  picture  is  manifestly  that  of  deeper  feel- 
ing, though  both  pieces  are  from  the  heart. 

ON  THE  RECEIPT  OF  MY  MOTHER'S  PICTURE. 

Oh  that  those  lips  had  language !  Life  has  pass'd 
"With  me  but  roughly  since  I  heard  thee  last. 
Those  lips  are  thine — thine  own  sweet  smile  I  see, 
The  same  that  oft  in  childhood  solaced  me  ; 
Voice  only  fails,  else  how  distinct  they  say, 
"  Grieve  not.  mv  child,  chase  all  thy  fear."  awav  V 


HIS   mother's    picture.  301 

The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes 
(Blest  be  the  art  that  can  immortalize, 
The  art  that  baffles  Time's  tyrannic  claim 
To  quench  it)  here  shines  on  me  still  the  same. 
Faithful  remembrancer  of  one  so  dear, 

0  welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here  I 
Who  bidst  me  honor  with  an  artless  song, 
Affectionate,  a  mother  lost  so  long. 

1  will  obey,  not  willingly  alone, 

But  gladly,  as  the  precept  were  her  own : 
And,  while  that  face  renews  my  filial  grief, 
Fancy  shall  weave  a  charm  for  my  relief, 
Shall  steep  me  in  Elysian  reverie, 
A  momentary  dream,  that  thou  art  she. 

My  mother !  when  I  learn'd  that  thou  wast  dead, 
Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I  shed  ? 
Hover'd  thy  spirit  o'er  thy  sorrowing  son, 
Wretch  even  then,  life's  journey  just  begun  ? 
Perhaps  thou  gavest  me,  though  unfelt,  a  kiss ; 
Perhaps  a  tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss — 
Ah,  that  maternal  smile !  it  answers — Yes. 
I  heard  the  bell  toll'd  on  thy  burial  day, 
I  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away, 
And,  turning  from  my  nursery  window,  drew 
A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu ! 
But  was  it. such? — It  was. — Where  thou  art  gone 
Adieus  and  farewells  are  a  sound  unknown. 
May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore, 
The  parting  word  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more  1 
Thy  maidens,  grieved  themselves  at  my  concern, 
Oft  gave  me  promise  of  thy  quick  return. 
What  ardently  I  wish'd,  I  long  believed, 
And,  disappointed  still,  was  still  deceived. 
By  expectation  every  day  beguiled, 
Dupe  of  to-morrow  even  from  a  child. 
Thus  many  a  sad  to-morrow  came  and  went, 
Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrows  spent, 
I  learn'd  at  last  submission  to  my  lot, 
But,  though  I  less  deplored  thee,  ne'er  forgot. 

Where  once  we  dwelt  our  name  is  heard  no  more. 
Children  not  thine  have  trod  my  nursery  floor. 


30^  ii  i  b     KOTHlB'l     ^KTUKJi. 

And  where  the  gardener  Robin,  day  by  day, 

Drew  me  to  school  along  the  public  way, 

Delighted  with  my  bauble  coach,  and  wrapp'd 

In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet-capp'd, 

'Tis  now  become  a  history  little  known, 

That  once  we  call'd  the  pastoral  house  our  own. 

Short-lived  possession !  but  the  record  fair, 

That  memory  keeps  of  all  thy  kindness  there, 

Still  outlives  many  a  storm,  that  has  effaced 

A  thousand  other  themes  less  deeply  traced. 

Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made, 

That  thou  mightst  know  me  safe  and  warmly  laid ; 

Thy  morning  bounties  ere  I  left  my  home, 

The  biscuit,  or  confectionary  plum  ; 

The  fragrant  waters  on  my  cheeks  bestow'd 

By  thy  own  hand,  till  fresh  they  shone  and  glowed : 

All  this,  and  more  endearing  still  than  all, 

Thy  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no  fall, 

Ne'er  roughen'd  by  those  cataracts  and  breaks, 

That  humor  interposed  too  often  makes ; 

All  this  still  legible  in  memory's  page, 

And  still  to  be  so  to  my  latest  age, 

Adds  joy  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  pay 

Such  honors  to  thee  as  my  numbers  may; 

Perhaps  a  frail  memorial,  but  sincere, 

Not  scorn'd  in  Heaven,  though  little  noticed  here. 

Could  Time,  his  flight  reversed,  restore  the  hours, 
"When,  playing  with  thy  vesture's  tissued  flowers, 
The  violet,  the  pink,  and  jessamine, 
I  prick'd  them  into  paper  with  a  pin, 
(And  thou  wast  happier  than  myself  the  while, 
Wouldst  softly  speak,  and  stroke  my  head,  and  smile); 
Could  those  few  pleasant  days  again  appear, 
Might  one  wish  bring  them,  would  I  wish  them  here  ? 
I  would  not  trust  my  heart — the  dear  delight 
Seems  so  to  be  desired,  perhaps  I  might. — 
But  no— what  here  we  call  our  life  is  such, 
So  little  to  be  loved,  and  thou  so  much, 
That  I  should  ill  requite  thee  to  constrain 
Thy  unbound  spirit  into  bonds  again. 


li  l  B     MOTUSB'l     P1CTUIE.  SUtf 

Thou,  as  a  gallant  bark  from  Albion's  coast 
(The  storms  all  weather'd  and  the  ocean  cross'd) 
Shoots  into  port  at  some  well-haven'd  isle, 
Where  spices  breathe,  and  brighter  seasons  smile, 
There  sits  quiescent  on  the  floods,  that  show 
Her  beauteous  form  reflected  clear  below, 
While  airs  impregnated  with  incense  play 
Around  her,  fanning  light  her  streamers  gay  ; 
So  thou,  with  sails  how  swift !  hast  reach'd  the  shore, 
'•Where  tempests  never  beat  nor  billows  roar;"* 
And  thy  loved  consort  on  the  dangerous  tide 
Of  life  long  since  has  anchor'd  by  thy  side. 
But  me,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest, 
Always  from  port  withheld,  always  distress'd — 
Me  howling  blasts  drive  devious,  tempest-toss'd, 
Sails  ripp'd.  seams  opening  wide,  and  compass  lost, 
And  day  by  day  some  current's  thwarting  force 
Sets  me  more  distant  from  a  prosperous  course. 
But  oh,  the  thought,  that  thou  art  safe,  and  he  1 
That  thought  is  joy,  arrive  what  may  to  me. 
My  boast  is  not  that  I  deduce  my  birth 
From  loins  enthroned,  and  rulers  of  the  earth  ; 
But  higher  far  my  proud  pretensions  rise — 
The  son  of  parents  pass'd  into  the  skies. 
And  now,  farewell — Time  unrevoked  has  run 
His  wonted  course,  yet  what  I  wish'd  is  done. 
By  contemplation's  help,  not  sought  in  vain, 
I  seem  to  have  lived  my  childhood  o'er  again ; 
To  have  renew'd  the  joys  that  once  were  mine, 
Without  the  sin  of  violating  thine  ; 
And,  while  the  wings  of  fancy  still  are  free, 
And  I  can  view  this  mimic  show  of  thee, 
Time  has  but  half  succeeded  in  his  theft — 
Thyself  removed,  thy  power  to  soothe  me  left. 

The  unequaled  tenderness  and  pathos  of  this 
poem,  and  the  universal  experience  of  the  sweet- 
ness and  preciousness  of  a  mothers  love,  by  which 

*  Garth. 


304  PROVIDENTIAL     MERCY. 

all  hearts  answer  to  its  exquisite  touches,  have 
rendered  it  perhaps  the  best  appreciated  and  ad- 
mired of  all  Cowper's  productions.  The  note  of 
his  own  sorrow  is  here,  as  every  where,  the  same, 
''scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest,''  to  which 
nevertheless  with  undeviating  constancy  of  desire 
his  heart  was  always  turned.  He  might  have 
been  answered,  in  the  heantiful  language  of  his 
own  consoling  lines  to  a  much  afflicted  child  of 
God: 

Ah !  be  not  sad !  although  thy  lot  be  cast 
Far  from  the  flock,  and  in  a  boundless  waste ! 
No  shepherd's  tents  within  thy  view  appear, 
But  the  chief  Shepherd  even  there  is  near  ; 
Thy  tender  sorrows,  and  thy  plaintive  strain, 
Flow  in  a  foreign  land,  but  not  in  vain ; 
Thy  tears  all  issue  from  a  source  divine, 
And  every  drop  bespeaks  a  Saviour  thine ! 

Writing  to  Lady  Hesketh,  with  a  desire  to 
make  every  thing  in  his  situation  and  experience 
appear  as  pleasantly  to  her  as  he  could  consci- 
entiously describe  it,  Cowper  says  :  "  He  who  hath 
preserved  me  hitherto,  will  still  preserve  me.  All 
the  dangers  that  I  have  escaped  are  so  many 
pillars  of  remembrance,  to  which  I  shall  hereafter 
look  back  with  comfort,  and  be  able,  as  I  well 
hope,  to  inscribe  on  every  one  of  them  a  grateful 
memorial  of  God's  singular  protection  of  me. 
Mine  has  been  a  life  of  wonders  for  many  years, 
and  a  life  of  wonders  I  in  my  heart  believe  it  will 


PROVIDENTIAL     MERCY.  305 

be  to  the  end.  Wonders  I  have  seen  in  the  great 
deeps,  and  wonders  I  shall  see  in  the  paths  of 
mercy  also.     This,  my  dear,  is  my  creed." 

But  this  is  neither  the  creed  nor  the  language, 
and  these  are  not  the  feelings,  either  of  hopeless- 
ness or  despair,  but  of  faith,  and  hope,  and  ador- 
ing gratitude  and  love.  And  while  Cowper  could 
write  thus,  he  was  gaining,  by  grace,  a  transitory 
victory,  full  of  promise,  although  so  transitory, 
over  the  soul's  great  Enemy,  and  his  own  habitual 
gloom. 

It  was  by  one  of  the  paths  of  mercy  in  the 
Divine  Providence  that  Cowper  was  led  to  change 
the  place  of  his  residence  from  Olney  to  Weston. 
This  removal  to  a  new  and  delightful  abode  was 
accomplished  in  1786  through  Lady  Hesketh's 
affectionate  perseverance  and  energy.  The  house 
at  Olney  had  been  always  unfavorable  to  the 
health  of  its  inmates.  Cowper  speaks  of  having 
been  confined  for  years  by  the  combination  of 
locality  and  climate,  from  September  to  March, 
and  sometimes  longer.  Besides  the  raw  vapors 
issuing  from  flooded  meadows,  and  the  sitting- 
room,  sometimes  for  months,  over  a  cellar  filled 
with  water  Cowper  said  also  that  a  gravel  walk, 
thirty  yards  long,  was  all  the  open  space  he  had 
to  move  in  for  eight  months  in  the  year,  during 
thirteen  years  of  such  imprisonment. 

Their  walks  and  space  for  exercise  from  April 


300  EXQUISITE     PICTURE. 

to  August  were,  however,  delightful,  and  so  was 
Cowper's  own  workshop,  as  he  called  it,  in  the 
garden.  Take,  for  example,  the  following  ex- 
quisite picture.  "I  am  writing  in  it  now.  It  is 
the  place  in  which  I  fabricate  all  my  verse  in 
summer  time.  The  grass  under  my  windows  is 
all  bespangled  with  dew-drops,  and  the  birds  are 
singing  in  the  apple-trees  among  the  blossoms. 
Never  poet  had  a  more  commodious  oratory  in 
which  to  invoke  his  muse. 

u  We  took  our  customary  walk  yesterday  in  the 
wilderness  at  Weston,  and  saw  with  regret  the 
laburnums,  syringas,  and  guelder-roses,  some  of 
them  blown,  and  others  just  upon  the  point  of 
blowing,  and  could  not  help  observing,  '  all  these 
will  be  gone  before  Lady  Hesketh  comes  !'  Still, 
however,  there  will  be  roses,  and  jasmine,  and  honey- 
suckle, and  shady  walks,  and  cool  alcoves,  and  you 
will  partake  of  them  with  us.  But  I  want  you  to 
have  a  share  of  every  thing  that  is  delightful 
here,  and  can  not  bear  that  the  advance  of  the 
season  should  steal  away  a  single  pleasure  before 
you  can  come  to  enjoy  it." 

Mr.  Unwin  was  shocked  when  he  first  saw  the 
house  in  which  his  mother  and  Cowper  dwelt  so 
long  in  Olney.  It  looked  to  him  like  a  prison,  and 
Cowper  told  him  afterward  that  his  view  of  it 
was  not  only  just  but  prophetic.  Nevertheless, 
some  very  happy  years  were  spent  there,  and  the 


A     JUST     DELIVERY.  307 

quiet  and  sweetness,  the  refinement,  purity,  and 
piety  of  the  domestic  circle  threw  around  it  an  air 
of  beauty.  When  they  first  thought  of  the  resi- 
dence at  Weston,  then  the  discomforts  of  the 
house  at  Olney  came  suddenly  into  view.  Cowper 
told  Mr.  Unwin  that  "  it  not  only  had  the  aspect 
of  a  place  built  for  the  purpose  of  incarceration, 
but  had  actually  served  that  purpose  through  a 
long,  long  period,  and  they  had  been  the  prisoners. 
But  a  jail-delivery  is  at  hand.  The  bolts  and 
bars  are  to  be  loosed,  and  we  shall  escape.  Both 
your  mother's  constitution  and  mine  have  suffered 
materially  by  such  close  and  long  confinement, 
and  it  is  high  time,  unless  we  intend  to  retreat 
into  the  grave,  that  we  should  seek  out  a  more 
wholesome  residence."  He  told  Mr.  Newton,  on 
the  same  occasion,  that  "a  fever  of  the  slow-and- 
spirit-oppressing  kind  seemed  to  belong  to  all,  ex- 
cept the  natives,  who  had  dwelt  in  Olney  many 
years  ;"  and  he  thought  that  both  Mrs.  Unwin 
and  himself  owed  their  respective  maladies  to  the 
local  causes  that  have  been  enumerated. 

In  thus  speaking,  Cowper  did  not  refer  to  the 
burden  of  his  despair,  which  he  never  attributed 
to  physical  disease,  however  much  he  might  be 
willing  to  admit  that  it  was  exasperated  by  his 
nervous  fevers.  Neither  the  physical  nor  the  mental 
derangement  were  produced  by  the  marshes  of 
Olney,  for  both  had  been  developed  in  his  system 


308  EARLIEST     DEJECTION. 

as  early  as  his  residence  at  London  in  the  Temple. 
There,  at  the  age  of  twenty-one,  in  1752,  he  was 
"  struck  with  such  a  dejection  of  spirits  as  none 
but  they  who  have  felt  the  same,  can  have  the 
least  conception  of.  Day  and  night,"  he  says,  "  I 
was  upon  the  rack,  lying  down  in  horror,  and 
rising  up  in  despair.  I  presently  lost  all  relish 
for  those  studies  to  which  I  had  before  been 
closely  attached  ;  the  classics  had  no  longer  any 
charms  for  me  ;  I  had  need  of  something  more 
salutary  than  amusement,  but  I  had  no  one  to 
direct  me  where  to  find  it." 

It  was  after  his  removal  to  Weston  that  the 
third  attack  of  his  mental  malady  occurred  ;  and 
the  recovery  from  it  (as  has  been  noted)  was  as 
sudden  as  the  attack.  In  reviewing  it,  he  spoke 
of  "  those  jarrings  that  made  his  skull  feel  like  a 
broken  egg-shell."  There  were  causes  both  of 
physical  and  mental  disease  in  his  system,  which 
would  doubtless  have  been  developed,  had  his 
residence  from  the  outset  been  in  Weston,  or  any 
other  part  of  the  kingdom,  during  the  whole 
twenty-five  years  since  his  departure  from  St. 
Albans ;  but  they  might  have  been  much  re- 
pressed and  modified,  and  perhaps  at  length 
nearly  removed  or  conquered,  had  his  manner  of 
life  been  more  active,  and  his  home  more  favorable 
to  health.  But  neither  physical  nervous  derange- 
ment, nor  local  miasma  aggravating   its  power, 


SPIRITUAL     ADVERSARIES.  809 

nor  mistakes  in  the  manner  of  its  treatment,  can 
prove  that  there  were  no  assaults  from  malignant 
spiritual  adversaries.  It  is  declared  by  divine  in- 
spiration to  be  the  work  of  the  god  of  this  world 
to  blind  the  minds  of  those  that  believe  not,  lest 
the  light  of  the  glorious  Gospel  of  Christ  should 
be  received  by  them.  It  may  be  equally  his  work 
to  produce  delusion  in  the  minds  of  those  that  be- 
lieve, if  he  can  by  that  means  turn  them  astray, 
or  diminish  or  destroy  their  usefulness.  But  Cow- 
per  was  in  the  hands  of  God,  not  Satan,  and  thus 
far  the  Tempter  might  go,  and  no  further  than 
just  to  reveal  the  more  brightly  the  wonderful 
grace  of  God.  A  thread  of  divine  providence, 
Cowper  was  wont  to  say,  ran  through  his  whole 
life,  and  he  could  trace  divine  interposition  in 
every  part  of  it ;  but  he  felt  that  he  could  also 
trace  the  malignant  interference  of  opposing  pow- 
ers. Who  can  say  that  he  and  Newton  were  mis- 
taken ? 

Some  of  Cowper's  letters  to  Mrs.  King  contain 
interesting  and  illustrative  references  to  his  own 
case,  and  his  own  opinion  in  regard  to  it.  He  told 
her  that  he  was  a  strange  creature,  with  singulari- 
ties that  would  fill  her  with  wonder  if  she  knew 
them.  "  I  will  add,  however,"  says  he,  "injust- 
ice to  myself,  that  they  would  not  lower  me  in 
your  good  opinion  ;  though  perhaps  they  might 
tempt  you  to  question  the  soundness  of  my  upper 


310  [ JT T I  R  G  I  ISOBT     PRAYER. 

story.  Almost  twenty  years  have  I  been  thus 
unhappily  circumstanced  ;  and  the  remedy  is  in 
the  hand  of  God  only/'  He  then  says  that  all 
this  uuhappiness  may  vanish  in  a  moment,  and  if 
it  please  God  it  shall.  "In  the  mean  time,  my 
dear  madam,  remember  me  in  your  prayers,  and 
mention  me  at  those  times  as  one  whom  it  has 
pleased  God  to  afflict  with  singular  visitations/' 

This  was  in  1790,  and  at  this  time  he  not  only 
besought  the  prayers  of  dear  Christian  friends  for 
himself  in  his  affliction,  but  was  in  the  habit  of 
commending  them  also  to  God  in  like  manner  at 
the  throne  of  grace,  when  he  heard  of  their  dis- 
tresses. This  is  evident  from  a  letter  to  Newton 
on  the  declining  health  of  his  wife.  Cowper  closes 
it,  "  commending  you  and  Mrs.  Newton,  with  all 
the  little  power  I  have  of  that  sort,  to  His  fatherly 
and  tender  care  in  whom  you  have  both  believed, 
in  which  friendly  office  I  am  fervently  joined  by 
Mrs.  Unwin." 

In  this  same  letter  he  says  :  "  Twice,  as  you 
know,  I  have  been  overwhelmed  with  the  blackest 
despair  ;  and  at  those  times  every  thing  on  which 
I  have  been  at  any  period  of  my  life  concerned, 
has  afforded  to  the  Enemy  a  handle  against  me. 
I  tremble,  therefore,  almost  at  every  step  I  take, 
lest  on  some  future  similar  occasion  it  should 
yield  him  opportunity,  and  furnish  him  with  means 
to  torment  me."     He  said  this,  in  reference  to  the 


SINCERITY     OF     MIND.  811 

question  of  resorting  to  magnetism,  which  had 
been  proposed  by  Newton,  as  an  experiment  which 
it  might  be  well  to  try  in  Cowper's  case  ;  but  he 
had  "  a  thousand  doubts/'  and  it  was  not  thought 
best  to  attempt  it. 

"I  could  not  sing  the  Lord's  song,"  said  Cow- 
per,  "were  it  to  save  my  life,  banished  as  I  am, 
not  to  a  strange  land,  but  to  a  remoteness  from 
His  presence,  in  comparison  with  which  the  dis- 
tance from  east  to  west  is  no  distance,  is  vicinity 
and  cohesion.  I  dare  not,  either  in  prose  or  verse, 
allow  myself  to  express  a  frame  of  mind  which  I 
am  conscious  does  not  belong  to  me  ;  least  of  all 
can  I  venture  to  use  the  language  of  absolute  res- 
ignation, lest,  only  counterfeiting,  I  should,  for 
that  very  reason,  be  taken  strictly  at  my  word,  and 
lose  all  my  remaining  comfort." 

This  was  written  in  1788  to  his  friend,  Mr.  Bull, 
in  answer  to  a  request  for  some  hymns  from  Cowper, 
or  a  proposition  that  he  would  employ  his  powers 
again  in  that  kind  of  composition.  "  Ask  possi- 
bilities, and  they  shall  be  performed,"  said  Cow- 
per ;  "but  ask  not  hymns  from  a  man  suffering 
from  despair  as  I  do."  But  when  Cowper  speaks 
of  his  remaining  comfort,  it  is  plain  that  he  is  not, 
and  does  not  regard  himself  as  being,  a  prey  to 
absolute  despair.  He  has  some  comfort,  and  is 
fearful  of  any  step  that  might  deprive  him  of  it. 
It  was  only  two  years  and  a  half  before  this  date 


312  TERROR     OF     JANUARY. 

that  Cowper  began  the  renewal  of  his  correspond- 
ence with  Lady  Hesketh. 

Cowper  lived  in  terror  of  the  month  of  January, 
because  it  was  the  season  in  which  he  had  been 
twice  prostrated  by  the  dreadful  mental  malady 
which  had  covered  his  life  with  gloom.  He  ad- 
vanced toward  the  month,  he  told  Newton,  with 
a  dread  not  to  be  imagined.  He  said  he  knew 
better  than  to  be  mastered  by  such  terrors,  for  he 
knew  that  both  he  and  the  months  were  in  the 
hand  of  God,  and  that  one  month  was  as  danger- 
ous as  another,  unless  guarded  by  Him,  whether 
in  midsummer,  at  noonday,  and  in  the  clear  sun- 
shine, or  at  midnight  and  in  midwinter ;  but  he 
could  not  help  it,  could  not  avail  himself  of  his 
knowledge.  "  I  have  heard  of  bodily  aches  and 
ails  that  have  been  particularly  troublesome  when 
the  season  returned  in  which  the  hurt  that  occa- 
sioned them  was  received.  The  mind,  I  believe 
(with  my  own,  however,  I  am  sure  it  is  so),  is 
liable  to  similar  periodical  affections."  When  the 
dreaded  month  was  past,  he  was  "  thankful  to  the 
Sovereign  Dispenser  both  of  health  and  sickness, 
who,  though  he  had  had  such  cause  to  tremble, 
gave  him  encouragement  to  hope  that  he  might 
dismiss  his  fears." 

In  the  intervals,  and  in  the  anticipation  of  an 
event  to  which  he  looked  forward  with  delight, 
euch  as  the  visit  from   his   beloved   cousin  Lady 


TEARS     AND      HOPES.  813 

Hesketh,  he  could  give  a  most  cheerful,  and,  on 
the  whole,  a  most  sincerely  cheerful  description  of 
himself.  Then  again  it  was  a  mixture  of  de- 
spondency and  hope.  "  My  health  and  spirits 
seem  to  be  mending  daily.  To  what  end  I  know 
not,  neither  will  conjecture,  but  endeavor,  so  far  as 
I  can,  to  be  content  that  they  do  so.  *  *  *  But 
years  will  have  their  course  and  their  effects  ;  they 
are  happiest,  so  far  as  this  life  is  concerned,  who 
do  not  grow  old  before  their  time.  Trouble  and 
anguish  do  that  for  some  which  only  longevity 
does  for  others.  A  few  months  since  I  was  older 
than  your  father  is  now,  and  though  I  have  lately 
recovered,  as  FalstafT  says,  some  smatch  of  my 
youth,  I  have  but  little  confidence,  in  truth,  none, 
in  so  flattering  a  change,  but  expect,  when  I  least 
expect  it,  to  wither  again/' 

His  repeated  experience  of  sudden  attacks  and 
as  sudden  restorations  induced  him  at  length  to 
conclude  that  this  was  the  appointed  and  peculiar 
style  of  God's  providence  in  regard  to  him,  and 
that  it  would  last  to  the  end  ;  and,  moreover,  that 
he  might  be  restored  to  perfect  light  and  peace 
and  blessedness  at  a  moment  when  he  least  ex- 
pected it.  All  this  was  realized  ;  but  the  end,  not 
till  he  entered  on  the  glory  of  a  better  world. 
The  infinite  amazement  and  ecstasy  of  his  spirit, 
when  released  from  its  prison,  and,  in  the  language 
of  FsLu\,foimd  in  Christ,  at  his  appearing  and  in 
14* 


314  STYLE      OF     PROVIDENCE. 

his  kingdom,  can  be  thought  upon  in  silence,  but 
not  shadowed  forth  in  words.  It  was  only  an  ex- 
ercise of  power  and  grace  by  the  Lord  of  Life  and 
Glory,  greater  than  in  the  case  of  Lazarus,  that 
could  say,  Loose  him,  and  let  him  go  ! 

"There  is,"  says  Cowper,  "a  certain  style  of 
dispensations  maintained  by  Providence  in  the 
dealings  of  God  with  every  man,  which,  however 
the  incidents  of  his  life  may  vary,  and  though  he 
may  be  thrown  into  many  different  situations,  is 
never  exchanged  for  another.  The  style  of  dis- 
pensation peculiar  to  myself  has  hitherto  been 
that  of  sudden,  violent,  unlooked-for  change. 
When  I  have  thought  myself  falling  into  the 
abyss,  I  have  been  caught  up  again  ;  when  I  have 
thought  myself  on  the  threshold  of  a  happy  eter- 
nity, I  have  been  thrust  down  to  hell.  The 
rough  and  the  smooth  of  such  a  lot,  taken  to- 
gether, should  perhaps  have  taught  me  never  to 
despair ;  but  through  an  unhappy  propensity  in 
my  nature  to  forbode  the  worst,  they  have  on  the 
contrary  operated  as  an  admonition  to  me  never  to 
hope.  A  firm  persuasion  that  I  can  never  durably 
enjoy  a  comfortable  state  of  mind,  but  must  be 
depressed  in  proportion  as  I  have  been  elevated, 
withers  my  joys  in  the  bud,  and  in  a  manner  en- 
tombs them  before  they  are  born,  for  I  have  no 
expectation  but  of  sad  vicissitude,  and  ever  believe 
that  the  last  shock  of  all  will  be  fatal." 


LETTERS     TO     NEWTON.  315 

This  was  to  Newton,  in  1788,  just  after  Cowper 
had  enjoyed  a  visit  from  that  dear  and  experienced 
friend,  who  knew  his  sorrows  better  than  any  other 
man  living.  Cowper  had  found  those  comforts, 
which  had  formerly  sweetened  all  their  interviews, 
in  part  restored.  He  knew  him,  he  said,  for  the 
same  shepherd  who  was  sent  to  lead  him  out  of 
the  wilderness  into  the  pasture  where  the  chief 
Shepherd  feeds  His  flock,  and  felt  his  sentiments 
of  affectionate  friendship  for  him  the  same  as 
ever.  But  one  thing,  he  said,  was  wanting,  and 
that  thing  the  crown  of  all ;  referring  to  a  per- 
sonal assurance  of  redemption  in  Christ.  "  I  shall 
find  it  in  God's  time,  if  it  he  not  lost  forever. 
When  I  say  this,  I  say  it  trembling  ;  for  at  what 
time  soever  comfort  shall  come,  it  will  not  come 
without  its  attendant  evil." 

Two  years  later,  in  October,  1790,  in  a  very 
beautiful  letter  to  the  same  dear  friend,  Cowper 
speaks  of  the  sense  one  has,  in  a  rural  situation, 
of  the  rapidity  with  which  time  flies.  The  show- 
ers of  Autumn  leaves  were  falling  from  the  trees 
around  him,  and  reminded  him  of  the  shortness 
of  his  existence  here.  There  was  a  time,  he  says, 
when  he  thought  of  this  with  pleasure,  and  even 
"  numbered  the  seasons  as  they  passed  in  swift 
rotation,  as  a  school-boy  numbers  the  days  that 
interpose  between  the  next  vacation,  when  he 
shall  see  his  parents  and  enjoy  his  home."     But 


316  LETTERS     TO     NEWTON. 

under  the  long  continuance  and  deepening  of  his 
religious  gloom,  the  absence  of  all  hope,  and  the 
prevalence  of  the  imaginary  assurance  that  lie  was 
to  be  banished  from  God  forever,  had  made  him 
look  upon  the  shortness  and  the  close  of  life  with 
regret,  though  the  consideration  was  once  so  grate- 
ful to  hiin.  He  says  he  had  become  such  another 
wretch  as  Maecenas  was,  who  wished  for  long  life, 
he  cared  not  at  what  expense  of  sufferings. 

*;  The  only  consolation  left  me  on  this  subject 
is,  that  the  voice  of  the  Almighty  can  in  one  mo- 
ment cure  me  of  this  mental  infirmity.  That  He 
can.  I  know  by  experience  ;  and  there  are  reas 
for  which  I  ought  to  believe  that  He  will.  But 
from  hope  to  despair  is  a  transition  that  I  have 
made  so  often  that  I  can  only  consider  the  hope 
that  may  come,  and  that  sometimes  I  believe  will, 
as  a  short  prelude  of  joy  to  a  miserable  conclusion 
of  sorrow  that  shall  never  end.  Thus  are  my 
brightest  prospects  clouded,  and  thus  to  me  is 
hope  itself  become  like  a  icitliered  floicer  tiiat  has 
lost  both  its  hue  and  its  fragrance." 

The  language  and  the  imagery  m  these  extracts 
are  very  affecting ;  yet  the  whole  passages  are 
proofs  of  what  we  have  intimated,  that  Cowper's 
despair  was  not  at  any  time  absolute,  but  in  gen- 
eral a  singular  and  trembling  mixture  of  fear  and 
hope,  so  that  he  could  seriously  and  soberly  speak 
of  the  gloom   as   a    mental   infirmity,  which  God. 


LETTERS     TO     N  IS  W  TON.  317 

could  dissipate,  and  of  the  idea  of  his  certain  per- 
dition as  a  notion,  which  the  Redeemer  could  dis- 
possess from  his  mind  at  any  moment.  If  his 
hope  was  like  a  withered  flower,  still  he  kept  it  as 
one  treasures  up  a  flower  given  by  a  very  dear 
friend  between  the  leaves  of  a  very  precious  book, 
and  though  the  flower  is  dry,  yet  the  heart  that 
loves  the  giver  is  not,  but  retains  the  same  affec- 
tion and  esteem  as  ever.  For  even  so  did  Cowper 
love  and  adore  an  unseen  Saviour,  and  this  de- 
lightful fact  was  sometimes  singularly  asserted  in 
his  dreams,  when  he  would  not  have  admitted  it 
in  his  hours  of  wakeful  despondency  ;  as  in  that 
instance  to  which  we  shall  have  occasion  to  refer, 
when  he  found  himself  exclaiming,  "I  love  Thee, 
even  now,  more  than  many  who  see  Thee  daily  !" 

In  connection  with  these  letters  to  Newton  in 
regard  to  his  visit,  how  beautiful  are  the  stanzas 
of  poetry  in  which  Cowper  had  sent  him  an  invi- 
tation in  the  Spring.  The  piece  closes  with  these 
three  verses  : 


Old  Winter,  halting  o'er  the  mead, 
Bids  rue  and  Mary  rnourn; 

But  lovely  Spring  peeps  o'er  his  head, 
And  whispers  your  return. 

Then  April,  with  her  sister  May, 
Shall  chase  him  from  the  bowers, 

And  weave  fresh  garlands  every  day, 
To  crown  the  smiling  hours. 


318  LETTERS     TO     NEWTON. 

And  if  a  tear  that  speaks  regret 

Of  happier  times  appear, 
A  glimpse  of  joy  that  we  have  met 

Shall  shine,  and  dry  the  tear. 

These  letters  are  still  more  striking,  from  the 
fact  that  even  while  writing  them,  Cowper  was  in 
the  enjoyment  of  good  health,  and  at  the  date  of 
the  last  more  than  usually  happy  and  cheerful  in 
the  family  circle,  Lady  Hesketh  being  at  that  time 
a  member  of  it.  Cowper  apologizes  for  the  "  dis- 
mal strain"  in  which  he  has  written,  and  then 
says  :  "  Adieu,  my  dear  friend.  We  are  well ; 
and  notwithstanding  all  that  I  have  said,  I  am 
myself  as  cheerful  as  usual.  Lady  Hesketh  is 
here,  and  in  her  company  even  I,  except  now  and 
then  for  a  moment,  forget  my  sorrows." 

Certainly  it  can  not  be  the  gloom  of  despair, 
when  the  presence  of  a  beloved  friend  can  so  effect- 
ually dispel  the  sorrow  as  to  make  it  forgotten  for 
days  together,  except  now  and  then  for  a  moment. 
Cowper  had  acquired,  in  the  long  comparative 
loneliness  of  his  state,  the  habit  of  brooding  over 
his  gloom,  and  if  a  cheerful,  affectionate,  and  happy 
spirit  like  Lady  Hesketh's  could  always  have  been 
with  him,  and  especially,  to  separate  him  from  the 
charge  of  a  perpetual  anxious  watchfulness  over 
the  declining  health  and  faculties  of  his  dear 
Mary,  the  result  would  have  been  very  different. 
His  mind  and  heart  were  in  no  condition  to  endure 


DARKENING     HOURS.  319 

"  the  dreadful  post  of  observation  darkening  every 
hour  ;"  and  it  was  a  terrible  complication  of  in- 
ward gloom  and  images  of  despair,  with  such  a  re- 
ality of  external  distress  answering  to  them,  when 
the  deplorable  condition  of  his  dearest  friend 
came  to  be  the  subject  of  incessant  care  and  con- 
templation. 


CHAPTER    XXV. 


THE  YEAR  1791. — FRIENDSHIP  BETWEEN  HAYLEY  AND  COWPER. — 
HAYLEY'S  VISIT  TO  WESTON.  AND  COWPERS  TO  EARTHAM. — ILL- 
NESS   OF   MRS.    UNWIN. ENGAGEMENT    ON   MILTON. 


In  1791  the  interesting  friendship  between  Hay- 
ley  and  Cowper  commenced,  with  a  frequent  and 
affectionate  correspondence  by  letter.  Hayley  then 
visited  Cowper  at  Weston,  and  during  the  month 
of  his  visit,  was  enabled  to  calm  and  comfort  his 
friend  beneath  the  shock  which  *the  whole  family 
sustained  in  an  attack  of  paralysis  with  which 
Mrs.  Unwin  was  most  suddenly  and  unexpectedly 
afflicted.  Electricity  was  found  to  be  a  successful 
remedy,  and  she  gradually  recovered,  though  very 
feeble  still  when  Hayley  left  them.  At  this  time 
Hayley  was  forty-seven  years  of  age,  Cowper 
sixty-one,  and  Mrs.  Unwin  nearly  seventy.  But 
from  this  period  Cowper's  mental  malady  seems  to 
deepen  and  darken,  while  the  intervals  of  relief 
and  cheerfulness  grow  more  infrequent  and  tran- 
sient. His  visit  to  Hayley  at  Eartham  was  a 
season  of  partial  enjoyment,  but  Mrs.  Unwin's  in- 


HARASSING     NIGHT     VISIONS.        321 

creasing  illness  was  a  cause  of  deep  dejection  and 
of  ceaseless  care.  The  gloom  and  distress  of  Cow- 
per's  mind  were  sometimes  insupportable.  Despair 
seemed  not  only  to  have  involved  his  heart,  but 
threatened  even  a  paralysis  of  his  intellect.  The 
dread  delusion  that  his  soul  had  been  rejected  of 
God  still  adhered  to  him,  after  his  recovery  from 
the  attack  in  1787,  and  his  system  was  more 
than  ever  subject  to  nervous  fever  and  disturb- 
ance. In  his  sleep  he  was  racked  with  distressing 
dreams,  and  scared  with  visions,  so  that  his  nights 
were  dreadful.  "  Distressed  and  full  of  despair, 
the  day  hardly  ever  comes  in  which  I  do  not  utter 
a  wish  that  I  had  never  been  born.  And  the  night 
is  become  so  habitually  a  season  of  dread  to  me 
that  I  never  lie  clown  on  my  bed  with  comfort,  and 
am  in  this  respect  a  greater  sufferer  than  Job,  who, 
concerning  his  hours  of  rest,  could  hope  at  least, 
though  he  was  disappointed  ;  but  in  my  case,  to 
go  to  sleep  is  to  throw  myself  into  the  mouth  of 
my  enemy/' 

In  another  letter  he  says,  "  I  wake  almost  con- 
stantly under  the  influence  of  a  nervous  fever,  by 
which  my  spirits  are  affected  to  such  a  degree 
that  the  oppression  is  almost  insupportable.  Since 
I  wrote  last,  I  have  been  plunged  in  deeps  unvis- 
ited,  I  am  convinced,  by  any  human  soul  but 
mine  ;  and  though  the  day  in  its  progress  bears 

awav  with  it  some  part  of  this  melancholy,  I  am 
14* 


322         c  o  y  t in ubd   lurrisi  s g . 

never  cheerful,  because  I  can  never  hope,  and  am 
60  bounded  in  my  prospects  that  to  look  forward 
to  another  year  to  me  seems  madness."  Mrs.  Un- 
win.  too.  was  in  a  deplorable  condition,  which  itself 
overtasked  Cowper's  sympathy  and  care.  Her 
paralytic  illnesses  were  gradually  rendering  her  own 
mind  gloomy  and  helpless,  so  that  the  combination 
of  distresses  in  their  condition  was  deplorably  af- 
fecting. "  Like  myself,''  wrote  Cowper,  "  she  is 
dejected  ;  dejected  both  on  my  account  and  on  her 
own.  Unable  to  amuse  herself  either  with  work 
or  reading,  she  looks  forward  to  a  new  dav  with 
despondence,  weary  of  it  before  it  begins,  and 
lono-inor  for  the  return  of  night.  Thus  it  is  with 
us  both.  If  I  endeavor  to  pray.  I  get  my  answer 
in  a  double  portion  of  misery.  My  petitions,  there- 
fore, are  reduced  to  three  words,  and  those  not 
very  often  repeated,  '  God  have  mercy/  ,; 

This  situation  was  so  gloomily  and  deplorably 
painful,  that,  as  Cowper  hiinself  said,  it  seemed  mi- 
raculous in  his  own  eyes,  that  always  occupied  as  he 
was  in  the  contemplation  of  the  most  distressing 
subjects,  he  was  not  absolutely  incapacitated  for 
the  common  offices  of  life.  "  My  purpose/'  said 
he,  "  is  to  continue  such  prayer  as  I  can  make, 
although  with  all  this  reason  to  conclude  that  it  is 
not  accepted,  and  though  I  have  been  more  than 
once  forbidden,  in  my  own  apprehension,  by  Him 
to  whom  it   is  addressed."     At   another  time  he 


IMPKEbSlONS      I  M      DREAMS.  323 

says,  "  Neither  waking  nor  sleeping  have  I  any 
communications  from  God,  but  am  perfectly  a 
withered  tree,  fruitless  and  leafless.  A  conscious- 
ness that  He  exists,  that  once  He  favored  me,  but 
that  I  have  offended  to  the  forfeiture  of  all  such 
mercies,  is  ever  present  with  me  ;  and  of  such 
thoughts  consist  the  whole  of  my  religious  expe- 
riences." 

Again,  "  I  feel  in  the  mean  time  every  thing 
that  denotes  a  man  an  outcast  and  a  reprobate. 
I  dream  in  the  night  that  God  has  rejected  me 
finally,  and  that  all  promises  and  all  answers  to 
prayers  made  for  me  are  mere  delusions.  I  wake 
under  a  strong  and  clear  conviction  that  these 
communications  are  from  God,  and  in  the  course 
of  the  day  nothing  occurs  to  invalidate  that  per- 
suasion. As  I  have  said  before,  there  is  a  mystery 
in  this  matter  that  I  am  not  able  to  explain.  I 
believe  myself  the  only  instance  of  a  man  to  whom 
God  will  promise  every  thing,  and  perform  noth- 
ing." This  impression  was  connected  with  a  voice 
which  he  thought  he  heard  in  the  year  1786,  before 
the  dreadful  access  of  delirium  in  178T;  and  which 
his  diseased  imagination  interpreted  as  the  voice 
of  God,  "  I  will  promise  you  any  thing." 

Meanwhile,  Cowper  had  undertaken  the  labor 
of  a  new  edition  of  Milton  with  notes,  the  respon- 
sibility of  which,  the  more  clearly  he  saw  the  im- 
possibility  of  accomplishing   it,    was    as    a   dark 


3l!4  DISTRESSING     L>  R  i;  A  M  8. 

mountain  before  him.     He  was  also  laboriously  at 

work  in  another  revision  of  his  translation  of 
Homer  ;  and  his  hours  of  labor  were  so  imprudently 
arranged,  that  this  alone  must  have  been  a  great 
exasperating  cause  of  his  depression.  Notwith- 
standing his  miseries  by  night,  and  his  sufferings 
on' waking — "I  wake  always,"  said  he,  ''under  a 
terrible  impression  of  the  wrath  of  God,  and  for 
the  most  part  with  words  that  fill  me  with  alarm, 
and  with  the  dread  of  woes  to  come" — notwith- 
standing this,  he  rose  every  morning  at  six,  and 
worked  incessantly  and  laboriously  upon  Homer 
till  near  eleven,  before  breakfasting  !  Some  four 
hours  of  exhausting  task-work,  daily,  in  this  cruel 
manner,  so  fatigued  both  body  and  mind  as  to  ren- 
der him  utterly  incapable  of  any  other  labor.  This 
course  was  pursued  at  this  time,  in  order  that  he 
might  have  the  whole  day,  after  Mrs.  Unwin  rose, 
to  devote  uninterrupted  to  the  care  of  that  dear 
invalid  ;  but  it  was  exhausting  and  depressing  in 
the  highest  degree. 

What  he  sometimes  endured  at  night,  as  well 
as  by  day,  may  be  judged  from  some  of  his  letters. 
"  From  four  this  morning  till  after  seven  I  lay 
meditating  terrors,  such  terrors  as  no  language  can 
express,  and  as  no  heart,  I  am  sure,  but  mine  ever 
knew.  My  very  finger-ends  tingled  with  it,  as  in- 
deed they  often  do.  I  then  slept  and  dreamed  a 
long  dream,   in  which   I   argued  with  many  tears 


SINGULARLY      VIVID      D  it  £  A  M .         325 

that  my  salvation  is  impossible.  I  recapitulated, 
in  the  most  impassioned  accent  and  manner,  the 
unexampled  severity  of  God's  dealings  with  me  in 
the  course  of  the  last  twenty  years,  especially  in 
the  year  1773,  and  again  in  1786,  and  concluded 
all  with  observing  that  I  must  infallibly  perish,  and 
that  the  Scriptures  which  speak  of  the  insufficiency 
of  man  to  save  himself  can  never  be  understood 
unless  I  perish/'  Again  he  says,  ''I  was  visited 
with  a  horrible  dream,  in  which  I  seemed  to  be 
taking  a  final  leave  of  my  dwelling,  and  every  ob- 
ject with  which  I  have  been  most  familiar,  on  the 
evening  before  my  execution.  I  felt  the  tenderest 
regret  at  the  separation,  and  looked  about  for 
something  durable  to  carry  with  me  as  a  memorial. 
The  iron  hasp  of  the  garden-door  presenting  itself, 
I  was  on  the  point  of  taking  that ;  but  recollecting 
that  the  heat  of  the  fire  in  which  I  was. going  to 
be  tormented  would  fuse  the  metal,  and  that  it 
would  therefore  only  serve  to  increase  my  insup- 
portable misery,  I  left  it.  I  then  awoke  in  all  the 
hoiTor  with  which  the  reality  of  such  circumstances 
would  fill  me." 

In  one  of  his  letters  to  Lady  Hesketh,  speaking 
of  his  continued  labors  upon  Homer,  Cowper  says, 
and  truly  says  :  "  Had  Pope  been  subject  to  the 
same  alarming  speculations,  had  he,  waking  and 
sleeping,  dreamed  as  I  do,  I  am  inclined  to  think 
he  would   not  have  been  my  predecessor  in  those 


326      REASONINGS     OF     IH1      INSANE. 

labors  ;  for  I  compliment  myself  with  a  persuasion 
that  I  have  more  heroic  valor,  of  the  passive  kind 
at  least,  than  he  had,  perhaps  than  any  man  ;  it 
would  be  strange  had  I  not,  after  so  much  ex- 
ercise." 

The  trains  of  Cowper's  reasoning  in  his  dreams 
may  some  of  them  be  curiously  and  instructively 
compared  with  illustrations  of  a  waking  insanity  ; 
as,  for  example,  in  the  instance  of  George  the  Third, 
who  once  addressed  himself  to  two  persons  long 
dead  under  the  idea  that  they  were  living  and  in 
his  presence.  "  Your  Majesty  forgets/'  said  Sir 
Henry  Halford,  "  that  they  both  died  many  years 
ago."  "  True,"  replied  His  Majesty,  "  died  to  you 
and  to  the  world  in  general,  but  not  to  me.  You, 
Sir  Henry,  are  forgetting  that  I  have  the  power 
of  holding  intercourse  with  those  whom  you  call 
dead.  Yes,  Sir  Henry  Halford,  it  is  in  vain,  so  far 
as  I  am  concerned,  that  you  kill  your  patients. 
Yes,  Dr.  Baillie  ;  but— Baillie,  Baillie  ?— I  don't 
know.  Baillie  is  an  anatomist ;  he  dissects  his 
patients  ;  and  then  it  would  not  be  a  resuscitation 
merely,  but  a  re-creation  ;  and  that,  I  think,  is 
beyond  my  power." 

In  the  year  1787,  just  before  the  sudden  and 
terrible  attack  of  his  malady,  which  was  the  third, 
Cowper  had  complained  to  Lady  Hesketh  of  his 
nervous  fever  rendering  his  nights  almost  sleepless 
during  a  whole  week.    Then  the  fever  left  him  en- 


OPINIONS      ON      DREAMS.  827 

tirely,  and  he  slept  quietly,  soundly,  and  long. 
Then,  most  unexpectedly,  ensued  the  dreaded 
crisis,  and  Cowper's  mind  seemed  instantly  to  have 
plunged  plumb  down  ten  thousand  fathom  deep 
into  depths  that  he  fully  believed  no  other  human 
being  had  ever  sounded.  The  prostration  contin- 
ued for  months,  and  the  whole  period,  as  to  em- 
ployment and  social  intercourse,  was  a  vacuum,  but 
not  as  to  consciousness,  though  he  never  put  on 
record  a  single  detail  of  his  profoundly  distressing 
experience. 

But  in  that  letter  to  Lady  Hesketh  which  pre- 
ceded this  attack  he  had  been  led  by  a  reference, 
to  Mrs.  Carter's  opinions  on  the  subject  of  dreams, 
to  speak  of  his  own,  which,  though  he  said  with 
truth  that  he  was  free  from  superstition,  he  be- 
lieved were  sometimes  prophetic.  Mrs.  Carter,  he 
said,  had  had  no  extraordinary  dreams,  "and 
therefore  accounted  them  only  the  ordinary  opera- 
tions of  the  fancy.  Mine  are  of  a  texture  that 
will  not  suffer  me  to  ascribe  them  to  so  inadequate 
a  cause,  or  to  any  cause  but  the  operation  of  an 
exterior  agency.  I  have  a  mind,  my  dear  (and  to 
you  I  wTill  venture  to  boast  of  it),  as  free  from 
superstitition  as  any  man  living,  neither  do  I  give 
heed  to  dreams  in  general  as  predictive,  though 
particular  dreams  I  believe  to  be  so." 

The  time  had  been  when  the  burden  of  Cow- 
per's distress  was  felt  in  gloom  and  apprehension 


'&2$  OPINIONS      ON      h  K  E  A  M  3 . 

mainly  in  the  day-time,  but  often  in  his  dreams 
he  had  intervals  of  peace  and  joy,  and  renewed 
that  blissful  communion  with  God,  of  which  his 
hymn  entitled  "  Retirement"  presents  so  exquisitely 
beautiful  a  description.  At  a  later  period  there  came 
a  darker  change,  and  day  and  night  were  but  a 
variation  of  the  same  portentous  clouds  and  im- 
ages of  woe.  The  reasoning  in  the  dream  concern- 
ing the  iron  hasp  of  the  gate  is  exactly  an  instance 
of  the  manner  in  which  an  ordinary  and  confirmed 
lunatic  will  reason  from  his  insane  premises  while 
wide  awake.  But  this  was  not  the  type  of  Cow- 
per's  insanity,  for  his  mind  was  under  complete 
control  in  the  day  time,  and  he  was  infinitely 
more  sane  in  his  dreadful  depression  and  despair,  in 
consequence  of  believing  that  he  was  cut  off 
ever  from  the  happiness  of  salvation,  than  any  of 
his  careless  but  affectionate  friends  were  (for  such 
he  had)  in  their  confidence  and  freedom  from 
anxiety.  If,  as  Southey  has  falsely  said,  Cowper's 
malady  ''had  been  what  is  termed  religious  mad- 
ness," theirs  was  the  worst  madness  of  having  no 
religion  at  all,  the  malady  of  an  insane  heedless- 
ness about  both  its  anxieties  and  its  hopes. 
Dreams  which  by  such  minds  would  be  scoffed  at 
as  the  bugbears  of  superstition,  would  fill  a  heart 
that  was  truly  anxious  on  the  subject  ox  an  eter- 
nal state  with  trembling  and  astonishment.  Such 
dreams  might   be,  like  the  Gospel   itself  to  men's 


PRAYERFUL   SYMPATHY.      329 

waking  vision,  the  means  of  thoughtfulness  and 
grace  to  the  one  class,  and  of  contempt  and  perdi- 
tion to  the  other. 

Once  in  a  while  his  dreams  were  brighter.  "  I 
dreamed  about  four  nights  ago  that,  walking  I 
know  not  where,  I  suddenly  found  my  thoughts 
drawn  toward  God,  when  I  looked  upward  and 
exclaimed,  '  I  love  Thee  even  now  more  than  many 
who  see  Thee  daily/  "  How  affectingly  true  in 
regard  to  the  reality  was  this  exclamation,  though 
uttered  in  a  dream,  and  though  the  afflicted  rea- 
son of  Cowper  would  not  have  dared  to  utter  it 
waking ! 

The  notes  of  his  misery  were  given  in  greatest 
fullness  to  his  neighbor  and  Christian  friend,  Mr. 
Teedon,  the  schoolmaster  at  Olney,  from  whose  pa- 
pers it  was  that  such  revelations  were  at  length  pre- 
sented of  what  Cowper  really  suffered.  Mr.  Newton 
regarded  Mr.  Teedon  with  friendly  esteem,  although 
Southey  intimates  that  if  Newton  had  been  there 
on  the  ground,  or  if  Mr.  Unwin  had  been  living, 
and  known  what  was  going  on,  they  would  have 
interposed,  the  one  on  behalf  of  the  afflicted  poet, 
the  other  on  behalf  of  Mrs.  Unwin,  to  prevent  them 
from  having  any  resort  to  Mr.  Teedon's  sympathy 
and  prayers.  Mrs.  Unwin  had  been  wont  to  com- 
mend their  suffering  friend  to  Mr.  Teedon's  sup- 
plications, that  God  would  in  mercy  break  away 
the  dreadful  gloom  of  his  despondency,  and  restore 


380  GLIMPSES     OF     COMFORT. 

to  him  the  light  of  His  countenance.  Cowper  him- 
self was  for  a  season  comforted  by  his  earnest 
prayers,  and  was  accustomed  to  tell  him,  as  in  a 
sort  of  diary,  the  spiritual  terrors  he  was  passing 
through. 

But  Southey  treats  these  communications  be- 
tween the  poet  and  his  humble  Christian  friend 
with  scorn,  and  endeavors  to  hold  up  the  school- 
master to  utter  derision,  as  a  contemptible  mixture 
of  the  fool  and  fanatic,  who  presumptuously  dared 
to  suppose  that  he  could  pray  for  a  being  so  su- 
perior to  him  in  intellect  as  Cowper,  and  that  God 
would  give  him  such  answers  as  might  comfort  the 
suffering  heart  in  prison,  and  unable  to  pray  for 
itself.  Southey  derides  this  man's  prayers,  and 
Cowper's  application  for  them,  as  if  they  and  it 
were  pitiable  and  ridiculous  to  the  last  degree. 
He  seems  indignant  that  Cowper  should  have  been 
a  party  to  such  spiritual  consultations  and  efforts. 
Yet  it  was  to  Mr.  Teedon's  affectionate  arguments, 
persuasions,  and  encouragements  that  Cowper 
yielded  so  far  as  to  resume  his  own  interrupted  ap- 
proaches to  the  throne  of  grace  ;  and  when  noth- 
ing on  earth  could  minister  to  him  one  ray  of  com- 
fort, he  was  enabled  to  glean  some  hope  in  the 
assured  earnestness  and  constancy  of  this  Christian 
friend's  petitions  for  him  at  the  mercy-seat.  But 
Southey  seems  filled  with  anger  at  the  very  thought 
of  comfort  so  administered  ;  it  seems  as  if  he  re- 


GLIMPSES     OF     LIGHT.  331 

gaided  it  as  the  last  possible  humiliation  of  lunacy 
that  Cowper  should  permit  a  poor,  lowly  school- 
master at  Olney,  to  pray  for  him  and  consult  with 
him.  In  truth,  the  brightest  gleams  of  comfort 
in  this  dark,  declining  period  of  his  life,  and  the 
only  intervals  of  hope,  were  enjoyed  by  Cowper 
through  the  instrumentality  of  this  despised 
Christian. 

These  records  of  what  Southey  calls  pitiable 
consultations,  treating  them  with  most  unfeeling 
contempt,  are  among  the  most  affecting  demon- 
strations both  of  Cowper's  sufferings  and  of  his 
genuine  piety.  They  are  no  proof  of  superstition, 
but  of  confidence  in  j)rayer,  unbroken  even  to  the 
last,  and  confidence  in  God  as  the  hearer  of  prayer. 
They  convey,  too,  such  manifestations  of  the  affec- 
tionate gratitude  of  Cowper  to  the  humble  indi- 
vidual whom  he  regarded  as  instrumental  of  any 
spiritual  blessing  to  him,  or  any  alleviation  of  his 
distress,  that  there  is  more  of  pleasure  than  of 
painfulness,  in  this  view,  in  their  perusal.  Cow- 
per's first  letter  from  Hayley's  house  at  Eartham, 
in  this  distressing  year,  was  written  to  Mr.  Teedon, 
(which  Southey  notes  as  in  itself  a  great  humilia- 
tion), and  it  contains  the  following  sweet  passage  : 
"  I  had  one  glimpse — at  least  I  was  willing  to 
hope  it  was  a  glimpse — of  heavenly  light  by  the 
way ;  an  answer,  I  suppose,  to  many  fervent 
prayers  of  yours.     Continue   to  pray  for  us,  and 


P  E  It  S  E  V  E  R  A  N  C  I      I  B      P  RATER. 

when  any  thing  occurs  worth  communicating,  let 
oa  know  it.  Mia  Unwin  is  in  charming  spirits,  to 
which  the  incomparable  air  and  delightful  scenes 
of  Eartham  have  much  contributed.  But  our 
thanks  are  always  due  to  the  Giver  of  all  good 
for  these  and  all  His  benefits  ;  for  without  His 
blessing,  Paradise  itself  would  not  cheer  the  soul 
that  knows  Him." 

It  is  remarkable  that  the  wanderings  of  Cow- 
per's  mind  in  the  chaos  of  dreams,  though  contin- 
ually pervaded  by  the  same  terror  as  by  day,  were 
mingled  with  intervals  of  celestial  light  and  com- 
fort. He  was  not  always  scared  with  visions,  nor 
barred  all  access  to  the  mercy-seat,  but  as  if  the 
soul  had  escaped  for  a  season  from  its  prison,  and 
was  soaring  at  liberty,  he  enjoyed  heartfelt  com- 
munion with  God.  And  the  following  paragraphs 
in  some  of  his  notes  to  Mr.  Teedon  show  that  one 
beneficial  effect  was  produced  by  Mr.  Teedon's 
prayerful  efforts  and  affectionate  counsels  and  en- 
treaties, which  the  whole  world  of  the  wise  and  the 
literary  could  not  have  effected  ;  they  persuaded 
Cowper  to  persevere  in  prayer  : 

"  I  have  now  persevered  in  the  punctual  per- 
formance of  the  duty'of  prayer.  My  purpose  is 
to  continue  such  prayer  as  I  can  make,  although 
with  all  this  reason  to  conclude  that  it  is  not  ac- 
cepted, and  though  I  have  been  more  than  once 
forbidden,  in  my  own   apprehension,  by  Him  to 


GODS     PRESENCE.  333 

whom  it  is  addressed.  You  will  tell  me  that  God 
never  forbids  any  body  to  pray,  but,  on  the  con- 
trary, encourages  all  to  do  it.  I  answer — Xo. 
Some  he  does  not  encourage,  and  some  he  even 
forbids  ;  not  by  words,  perhaps,  but  by  a  secret 
negative  found  only  in  their  experience. 

"  Since  I  wrote  last,  my  nights  have  been  less 
infected  with  horrid  dreams  and  wakings,  and  I 
would  willingly  hope  that  it  is  in  answer  to  the 
prayers  I  offer  ;  lifeless  as  they  are,  I  shall  not  dis- 
continue the  practice,  you  may  be  sure,  so  long  as 
I  have  even  this  encouragement  to  observe  it. 

"  Two  or  three  nights  since  I  dreamed  that  I 
had  God's  presence  largely,  and  seemed  to  pray 
with  much  liberty.  I  then  proceeded  dreaming 
about  many  other  things,  all  vain  and  foolish  ; 
but  at  last  I  dreamed  that  recollecting  my  pleas- 
ant dream,  I  congratulated  myself  on  the  exact 
recollection  that  I  had  of  my  prayer,  and  of  all 
that  passed  in  it.  But  when  I  waked,  not  a  sin- 
gle word  could  I  remember  ;  the  single  circum- 
stance that  my  heart  had  been  enlarged  was  all 
that  remained  with  me." 

To  Newton  he  wrote  as  follows  :  "  Prayer  I 
know  is  made  for  me,  and  sometimes  with  great 
enlargement  of  heart  by  those  who  offer  it  ;  and 
in  this  circumstance  consists  the  only  evidence  I 
can  find  that  God  is  still  favorably  mindful  of 
me,    and    has    not    cast   me  off  forever."      This 


334  JOHNSON'S      D  I  A  1C  Y  . 

gleam  of  consolation  was  derived  wholly  from  the 
freedom  of  his  communications  with  Mr.  Teedon, 
called  by  Southey  a  dangerous  superstition,  and 
regarded  as  a  mortifying  proof  of  his  insanity. 

It  is  singularly  interesting  to  compare  and 
contrast  these  records  of  Cowper's  conflicts,  and 
of  a  fellow-christian's  sympathizing  efforts  for 
him  in  prayer,  and  his  own  earnest  desires  and 
hopes  that  God  might  answer  such  prayer,  though 
he  himself  seemed  by  solitary  edict  excluded  from 
all  hopeful  approach  to  God  as  his  Heavenly 
Father,  with  the  records  of  really  pitiable  and 
humiliating  superstition  in  Dr.  Johnson's  Diary. 
These  were  remarked  upon  by  Cowper  himself  in 
one  of  his  letters  to  Newton  in  1785,  but  Southey 
has  not  one  word  to  utter  in  regard  to  the  danger 
to  be  apprehended  from  such  superstitions,  while 
he  sees  in  Cowper's  anxiety  for  the  prayers  of  a 
christian  friend,  and  in  that  friend's  belief  that 
such  prayers  are  answered,  nothing  but  proof  of 
egregious  self-conceit  and  vanity  on  one  side,  and 
a  mind  half  insane  on  the  other.  Cowper  speaks 
of  the  publisher  of  Johnson's  Diary  as  being 
"  neither  much  a  friend  to  the  cause  of  religion, 
nor  to  the  author's  memory  ;  for  by  the  specimen 
of  it  that  has  reached  us,  it  seems  to  contain  only 
such  stuff  as  has  a  direct  tendency  to  expose  both 
to  ridicule.  His  prayers  for  the  dead,  and  his 
minute  account  of  the  illc^t  with    which   be  ob- 


JOHNSON'S     DIARY.  335 

served  church  fasts,  whether  he  drank  tea  or 
coffee,  whether  with  sugar  or  without,  and  whether 
one  or  two  dishes  of  either,  are  the  most  important 
items  to  be  found  in  the  childish  register  of  the 
great  Johnson,  supreme  dictator  in  the  chair  of 
literature,  and  almost  a  driveler  in  his  closet ;  a 
melancholy  witness  to  testify  how  much  of  the 
wisdom  of  this  world  may  consist  with  almost 
infantine  ignorance  of  the  affairs  of  a  better." 

The  record  in  Johnson's  Diary  is  that  of  de- 
plorable superstition  and  Romish  bondage  unto 
fear,  arising  from  the  want  of  an  intelligent  ap- 
prehension of  the  method  of  redemption  in  Christ, 
and  a  heartfelt  reliance  upon  his  atoning  mercy 
for  justification.  But  the  record  in  Cowper's  his- 
tory, and  in  the  broken  series  of  notes  between 
him  and  Mr.  Teedon,  is  of  a  mind  fully  awake 
both  to  the  terrors  of  hell  and  the  glories  of  re- 
demption, and  also  perfectly  acquainted  with  God's 
method  of  acceptance  and  of  pardon,  and  per- 
fectly submissive  to  that  method,  and  relying  only 
on  that  ;  a  mind  also  encompassed  with  spiritual 
terrors,  and  burdened  with  despair,  but  at  the 
same  time  confident  in  God's  readiness  to  hear 
and  answer  prayer,  and  expecting  relief,  grace, 
and  deliverance  in  no  other  way  ;  not  by  observing 
church  fasts,  or  drinking  tea  without  sugar,  or 
setting  always  the  left  foot  first  across  the  thresh- 
old, but  by  faith  in  the  Lord  Jesus,  and  prayer  in 


u3(j  C '  U  W  P  E  R  '  I     CONFLICT. 

His   all-prevailing   name   as   our  Advocate   with 
God. 

It  is  a  picture  of  the  dreadful  conflict  of  a 
mind  "plunged  in  deeps/'  as  Cowper  thought, 
"  unvisited  by  any  other  human  soul ;"  a  child  of 
God,  harassed  with  the  belief  that  for  a  special 
and  peculiar  reason  God  would  not  hear  his  own 
prayers,  and  sometimes  forbade  him  to  pray,  turn- 
ing for  help  and  hope  to  the  intercessions  of  a 
fellow  Christian,  acquainted  with  that  conflict, 
and  filled  with  sympathizing  grief  on  account  of 
it,  and  to  whom  Cowper  believed,  and  had  reason 
to  believe,  that  God  granted  daily  enjoyment  in 
prayer,  daily  and  sweet  access  to  the  throne  of 
grace.  Now  in  all  this  Cowper  certainly  had  both 
Apostlic  examples  and  injunctions  to  guide  him, 
and  the  instructions  of  Divine  Inspiration  to 
sanction  his  course.  Paul  never  intimates  that  it 
is  egregious  conceit  and  vanity  in  any  common 
Christian  to  imagine  that  God  will  answer  his 
prayers,  but  he  does  earnestly  beg  all  common 
Christians  (common  or  uncommon)  to  pray  for 
him,  and  he  does  say  that  he  fully  expects  partic- 
ular blessings  through  their  prayers.  And  the 
Apostle  James  says  indeed  nothing  about  get- 
ting relief  to  a  burdened  heart  by  drinking  tea 
without  sugar,  but  he  does  say,  confess  your  sins 
one  to  another,  and  pray  one  for  another  ;  and 
he  does  not  intimate  that  the  prayers  of  a  literary 


cowper's    discernment.         337 

man  and  a  poet  are  of  any  greater  efficacy  before 
God  than  those  of  a  poor  schoolmaster ;  he  does 
not  intimate  that  a  man  must  be  learned  and 
refined  before  he  can  dare  presume  that  God  will 
hear  his  prayers  ;  neither  does  he  intimate  that 
prayers  from  the  prayer-book  will  be  heard,  while 
extempore  prayers  from  the  Christian's  own  heart, 
if  offered  in  the  confidence  that  God  will  hear 
them,  are  only  fanaticism  and  presumption. 

Furthermore,  the  sorrows,  terrors,  and  burdens 
of  the  soul  are  the  very  evils  of  all  others,  in 
which  God  would  have  Christians  seek  the  aid  of 
one  another's  prayers  ;  and  to  rely  on  sincere  prayer, 
in  such  a  case,  is  not  to  rely  on  man,  but  God. 
The  affectionate  turning  of  Cowper's  despairing 
heart  to  Mr.  Teedon's  prayers  for  spiritual  sympa- 
thy and  comfort  is  a  most  striking  proof  of  the 
prevalence  of  faith  and  christian  fellowship  even 
above  despair.  Cowper  felt  a  confidence  in  Mr. 
Teedon's  christian  character  from  long  acquaint- 
ance with  him  ;  and  the  failings  of  tediousness  and 
verboseness  in  conversation,  with  some  foibles  of 
vanity  even,  were  little  things  in  comparison  with 
the  possession  of  an  honest,  grateful,  and  sympa- 
thizing heart.  Cowper  was  not  a  man  easily  to 
be  deceived  or  imposed  upon,  but  he  had  very 
great  discernment  of  character,  and  was  never  in 
the  habit  of  concealing  or  denying  his  impressions. 

For  example,  in  one  of  his  letters  to  Newton,  in 
15 


338  CHRISTIAN      S  Y  II  1'  A  THY. 

the  year  1784,  lie  thus  speaks  of  a  man  whom 
they  had  both  known,  and  whose  professions  of 
religious  experience  it  would  seem  had  been  some- 
what large  :  "  He  says  much  about  the  Lord  and 
His  dealings  with  him  ;  but  I  have  long  considered 
James  as  a  sort  of  peddler  and  hawker  in  these 
matters,  rather  than  as  a  creditable  and  substan- 
tial merchant." 

Mr.  Teedon,  Cowper  knew  to  be  a  very  different 
person,  sincere  and  fervent  in  his  Christian  emo- 
tions, and  irreproachable  in  his  Christian  life.  As 
he  had  known  much  of  Cowper's  trials,  and  for  a 
long  space  of  time,  it  was  very  natural  that  both 
Cowper  and  Mrs.  Unwin  should  not  turn  away 
from  a  Christian  sympathy  expressed  by  him  in 
notes  as  well  as  in  conversation,  but  should  some- 
what freely,  and  with  kindness,  answer  his  in- 
quiries. Hence  the  communications  that  sprang 
up  between  them  ;  earnest  desires  for  prayer  and 
help  on  the  one  side,  and  assurances  of  prayer  and 
encouragements  to  hope  that  it  would  be  answered 
on  the  other.  The  Christian  circles  at  Olney  and 
at  Weston  did  not  despise  Mr.  Teedon  for  his  pov- 
erty, nor  for  the  fact  of  his  gaining  an  humble 
subsistence  in  the  capacity  of  village  schoolmaster  ; 
nor  did  they  regard  it  as  a  mark  of  egregious  van- 
ity and  conceit  in  him  to  suppose  that  God  might 
possibly  answer  his  prayers,  any  more  than  in 
Newton  himself,  or  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury, 
praying  on  the  Lord's  day  out  of  the  prayer-book. 


CHAPTER    XXVI 


LORD  MAHON'S  ACCUSATION  AGAINST  WESLEY. — THE  IMMEDIATE 
EFFICACY  OF  PRAYER. — DANGER  OF  DELUSION  IN  A  RELIGION 
ESTABLISHED  BY  THE  STATE. — CONSISTENCY  OF  COWPER  "WITH 
SCRIPTURE  IN  ASKING  AN  INTEREST  IN  OTHERS'  PRAYERS. — LET- 
TERS  TO   NEWTON   AND   HAYLEY. 


Lord  Mahon,  in  his  History  of  England,  in  the 
chapter  on  Methodism,  says  that  a  "  solemn  accu- 
sation might  have  been  brought  against  Wesley 
for  the  presumption  with  which  he  sometimes  as- 
cribed immediate  efficacy  to  his  prayers."  He  also 
says,  among  other  evils  of  his  career  enumerated, 
that  "very  many  persons  have  been  tormented 
with  dreadful  agonies  and  pangs  '"  besides  the 
great  evil  of  the  Church  being  weakened  by  so 
large  a  separation  from  it  as  the  formation  of  the 
Methodist  churches  occasioned. 

The  agonies  and  pangs  were  simply  those  that 
Paul  himself  experienced  when  he  found  himself 
slain  by  the  Law  ;  those  that  Bunyan  and  Luther 
experienced  in  a  conflict  protracted  beneath  the 
burden  and  the  sense  of  guilt,  much  longer  than 
Paul's  was,  before  they  would  learn  the  lesson  which 


340     LORD      M  A  II O  N      ON      METHODISM. 

the  Law,  as  our  schoolmaster,  was  appointed  to  teach 
in  bringing  us  to  Christ ;  and  those  that  Cowper 
also  experienced,  but  which  Southey,  and  others 
with  him,  regarded  as  a  dangerous  delusion,  re- 
sulting from  an  exaggerated  idea  of  human  de- 
pravity. If  it  is  an  evil  that  very  many  persons 
should  be  thus  tormented,  would  ignorance  of  sin, 
and  insensibility  to  its  guilt  and  danger,  be  the 
smaller  evil,  or  the  preferable  way  ?  Or  is  there 
any  way  into  the  kingdom  of  Heaven  without  some 
experience  of  such  pangs  and  agonies  ?  There  is 
indeed  a  way  into  the  Church,  smooth,  easy,  in- 
offensive ;  but  that  is  not  necessarily  Heaven,  nor 
does  belonging  to  the  Church  necessarily  include 
the  knowledge  or  experience  of  religion.  Yet 
such  would  seem  to  be  Lord  Mahon's  and  Southey's 
idea  of  piety,  or  a  main  element  in  it,  and  security 
of  it ;  a  religion  established  by  the  State  ;  a 
Church,  the  membership  of  which  is  to  be  accepted 
as  salvation.  And  to  compel  people  to  come  into 
the  Church  by  pangs  and  agonies,  when  they 
ought  to  be  members  of  it  in  their  own  right  by 
law,  by  simple  baptism  and  morality,  is  a  great  in- 
jury and  oppression  ! 

The  historian's  idea  of  religion  must  be  curious, 
indeed,  judging  from  such  complaints.  Then, 
again,  it  is  asserted  to  be  presumption,  an  element 
of  fanaticism  and  vanity,  such  as  Southey  sa^ys  Mr. 
Teedon  was  inspired  with,  for  an  individual  Chris- 


EFFICACIOUS      PHAYKK.  84 1 

tian  to  suppose  that  God  will  hear  and  at  once  an- 
swer his  prayers.  For  the  immediate  efficacy  of 
prayer  can  be  only  in  the  way  of  such  answer,  and 
that  is  what  the  accusation  means.  A  proper  and 
respectable  religion,  therefore,  such  as  is  embodied 
in  the  Established  Church  of  England,  must,  in 
the  view  of  many,  eschew  and  reject  such  an  ele- 
ment. Prayer  can  be  efficacious  only  by  virtue  of 
the  Church,  and  can  be  answered  only  in  a  churchly 
way,  but  not  for  any  individual  soul  by  itself  !  Is 
it  possible  that  a  man  of  intelligence  and  learning, 
with  any  knowledge  of  the  Gospel,  can  deliberately 
repose  his  confidence  on  such  a  piety,  and  believe 
himself  insured  into  salvation  by  organic  Church 
life,  and  participant  in  the  efficacy  of  prayer  by 
belonging  to  a  Church  that  has  an  established 
liturgy  ? 

It  were  worth  while  for  such  a  person  to  ques- 
tion with  himself  what  could  the  Apostle  James 
have  meant,  in  referring  all  believers  to  the  exam- 
ple of  Elijah,  as  an  incontrovertible  proof  that 
any  believing  soul,  coming  to  God  in  the  confidence 
that  He  is  the  rewarder  of  all  who  diligently  seek 
Him,  shall  be  likewise  directly  answered.  Why 
did  James  take  pains  to  remind  us  of  the  fact 
that  Elias  was  a  man  subject  to  like  passions  as 
ourselves,  except  for  the  purpose  of  establishing 
the  fact  that  it  is  a  universal  ride,  irrespective  of 
churches  and  of  persons,  that  God  does  hear  and 


342 


EXAMPL E     OF     ELIJAH 


answer  prayer,  if  presented  in  sincerity  and  faith  ? 
The  case  of  Elias  was  a  great  precedent,  interpret- 
ing this  rule,  first,  because  Elias  was  a  man,  not 
an  angel,  nor  a  Church  ;  second,  because  he  was  a 
man  of  the  same  passions  and  infirmities  as  we 
are,  and  not  a  perfect  man,  and  neither  heard  nor 
answered  on  account  of  his  perfection  or  his  prayer- 
book,  but  on  account  of  God's  mercy  and  his  own 
faith.  So  shall  any  man  of  like  passions  be  heard 
and  answered. 

Moreover,  it  were  well  to  ask  what  would  that 
personal  piety  be  worth  which  was  not  distin- 
guished by  a  belief  in  the  immediate  efficacy  of 
prayer  ?  Can  there  be  such  a  thing  as  true 
prayer  without  something  of  that  belief  ?  If  the 
Lord  Jesus  has  taught  his  disciples  to  pray,  be- 
lieving that  they  shall  receive  those  things  for 
which  they  ask  according  to  the  will  of  God,  and 
has  even  based  the  acceptableness  of  their  prayers 
on  that  belief,  then  the  disciple  who  has  not  that 
belief  is  destitute  of  an  essential  ingredient  in  the 
spirit  of  prayer.  Perhaps  Lord  Mahon  meant 
what  the  Duke  of  Wellington  was  wont  to  call 
fancy-prayers,  that  is,  extempore  prayers,  without 
the  prayer-book.  Probably  Lord  Mahon,  as  a  good 
Churchman,  would  not  have  ascribed  presumption 
to  Wesley,  if  he  had  prayed  only  out  of  the  prayer- 
book  ;  would  not  have  accused  him  of  fanaticism 
for   imagining    an    immediate    efficacy   in   those 


EXTEMPORE      PRAYER.  343 

prayers.  It  was  only  Ms  prayers,  Wesley's,  which 
it  was  presumptuous  to  suppose  were  attended 
with  immediate  efficacy  ! 

And  it  would  seem  from  such  a  scheme,  that 
even  if  the  prayers  in  the  prayer-book  are  as- 
sumed and  offered  by  individual  members  of  the 
Church,  it  is  presumption  in  any  one  to  suppose 
that  they  can  be  answered  as  the  prayers  of  the  in- 
dividual, on  the  exercise  of  the  individual's  desires 
and  faith  ;  such  a  thing  as  an  answer  is  only  to 
be  expected  on  the  ground  of  the  right  of  the  Es- 
tablished Church  to  present  the  supplication,  and 
only  through  the  mediation  of  the  Church.  The 
Church  and  the  prayer-book  in  such  a  case  are  but 
the  Pope  and  the  Priest  "  writ  large  ;"  and  there 
is  as  effectual  a  barrier  interposed  between  the  soul 
and  Christ,  as  there  is  by  penance  and  the  confes- 
sional, instead  of  prayer. 

A  singular  conception  is  the  true  historical  con- 
ception of  a  religion  established  by  the  State  ; — a 
religion  simply  and  solely  of  prescribed  forms  and 
prayers,  with  a  decent  morality  attached  to  them, 
together  with  a  security  against  all  enthusiasm. 
A  conservative  religion,  protecting  the  community 
from  being  tormented  with  dreadful  agonies  and 
pangs,  by  the  assurance  of  being  personally  stereo- 
typed into  Heaven  by  reliance  on  the  proxy  of  an 
accepted  liturgy,  efficacious  on  account  of  an 
organic  Church-life,  imparted  through   it   to  the 


344  A     FATAL      DELUSION. 

soul  of  every  worshiper  !  How  inestimable  the 
favor  of  a  sound  religious  currency  established  by 
law,  as  genuine  and  infallible  as  the  notes  of  the 
Bank  of  England  :  an  experience  superscribed  and 
minted,  as  the  Church-and-Ceesar's  appointed  coin, 
the  possessors  of  which  shall  defy  all  pangs  and 
agonies,  passing  into  the  Kingdom  Like  the  Iron 
Duke,  by  virtue  of  the  prayer-book  under  his 
arm  !  The  holders  of  such  coin  look  down  with 
pity  and  contempt  on  an  experience  like  that  of 
John  Bunyan,  for  example,  as  being  the  fever  of  a 
burning  enthusiasm,  from  which  the  true  Church 
happily  exempts  and  defends  her  children. 

::  Very  many  persons  have  been  tormented  with 
dreadful  agonies  and  pangs"  by  the  undignified 
and  cruel  system  of  a  personal  experience  of  relig- 
ion introduced  by  John  ^resley ;  agonies  and 
pangs  under  the  conviction  of  being  lost  sinners, 
which  might  all  have  been  avoided  by  trusting  in 
the  Church,  the  prayer-book,  and  the  sacraments. 
Alas,  what  a  frightful  delusion  is  this  !  And  what 
multitudes  of  immortal  beings,  as  capable  of  rea- 
soning in  regard  to  their  eternal  destiny  as  Lord 
Mahon,  and  with  the  sacred  Scriptures  before 
them,  are  at  this  very  day  staking  their  all  for 
eternity  on  the  assurance  that  they  are  safe  from 
perdition  by  the  sacraments  and  the  Church. 
With  reference  to  just  such  a  delusion  prevailing 
in  the  Jewish  Church,  our  Blessed  Lord  told  the 


AKCHBISHOP     SXCK1B.  345 

Jews  and  His  own  disciples,  that  the  children  of 
the  kingdom,  they  that  trusted  in  the  Church 
and  in  their  belonging  to  it,  should  be  cast  into 
outer  darkness,  where  there  would  be  weeping  and 
gnashing  of  teeth.  The  Pharisee,  belonging  to  the 
kingdom,  ridicules  the  prayer  of  the  humble  Pub- 
lican, God  be  merciful  to  me  a  sinner  I — and  re- 
jects with  contempt  the  idea  of  the  fanaticism 
that  would  ascribe  immediate  efficacy  to  such 
prayer.  Poor  Mr.  Teedon,  the  schoolmaster  !  To 
think  that  Cowper  should  be  reduced  to  such  hu- 
miliation of  mind  as  to  beg  an  interest  in  such  a 
Christian's  prayers,  and  venture  to  hope  for  an 
answer  to  them  ! 

It  is  an  impressive  and  illustrative  anecdote 
which  is  related  of  Archbishop  Seeker  on  his  sick 
bed,  when  visited  by  Mr.  Talbot,  Vicar  of  St. 
Giles's,  Heading,  who  had  lived  in  great  intimacy 
with  him,  and  received  Iris  preferment  from  him. 
"  You  will  pray  with  me,  Talbot,"  said  the  arch- 
bishop, during  their  interview.  Mr.  Talbot  rose 
up,  and  went  to  look  for  a  prayer-book.  "  That  is 
not  what  I  want  now,"  said  the  dying  prelate  ; 
"  kneel  down  by  me,  and  pray  for  me  in  the  way 
I  know  you  are  used  to  do."  The  man  of  God 
readily  complied  with  this  command,  and  kneeling 
down,  prayed  earnestly  from  his  heart  for  his 
dying   friend    the    archbishop,  whom  he   saw  ao 


more. 


15* 


34(J  PROOF     OF     SANITY. 

We  can  see  no  reason  why  Mr.  Teedon  might 
not  offer  as  earnest  and  acceptable  prayer  for  Cow- 
per  as  Mr.  Talbot  for  Archbishop  Seeker.  And  if 
the  archbishop  needed  such  prayer  when  dying, 
and  was  not  insane  in  asking  for  it,  the  poet  also 
might  have  need  of  it  living,  and  his  seeking  for 
it  was  not  necessarily  a  proof  of  insanity,  but  the 
reverse. 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 

IMPRESSIVE  LESSONS  FROM  COWPER'S  IMAGINARY  DESPAIR. — GOD 
DOES  NOT  REQUIRE  ANY  TO  BE  WILLING  TO  BE  DAMNED  ;  BUT 
ETERNAL  SEPARATION  FROM  GOD  IS  DAMNATION. — MISTAKE  OF 
MYSTICISM  AND  POETRY. — COWPER  SUBMISSIVE  TO  GOD'S  WILL, 
BUT  NOT  "WILLING  TO  BE  SEPARATED  FROM  HIM. — COWPER'S 
GENTLENESS. — FALSE  REMARK  OF  LEIGH  HUNT  IN  REGARD  TO 
ROMNEY'S   PORTRAIT    OF   COWPER. 

The  spectacle  of  Cowper's  misery  and  helpless- 
ness beneath  the  despotism  of  an  imaginary  de- 
spair, conveys  a  most  vivid  and  impressive  lesson 
of  the  necessity  of  spiritual  joy  for  active  useful- 
ness. Hope  is  not  only  the  anchor,  but  the  im- 
pulsive power  of  the  soul.  Hence  we  see  the  error 
even  in  Madame  Guion,  of  a  mysticism  that  seeks 
to  rise  to  an  unreal  exaltation,  an  imaginary  and 
impossible  elevation,  not  only  not  enjoined  in  the 
Word  of  God,  but  forbidden  by  the  principles  of 
true  piety.  One  of  her  pieces,  translated  by  Cow- 
per,  contains  the  following  stanza,  supposed  to  be 
the  language  of  a  soul  brought  to  such  a  point  of 
absolute  self-renunciation  as  to  be  willing  that 
God  should  depart  forever.     And  this  is  imagined 


348  IMAGINARY      B  lT  ii  M  I  S  S  1  O  N  . 

to  be  the  ineffable  point  of  acquiescence,  to  which 
God,  in  hiding  His  face,  would  bring  the  soul  that 
loves  Him.  Translated  from  poetry  into  plain 
prose,  it  is  the  requisition  that  a  man  be  willing 
to  be  damned  ;  that  is  to  say,  it  is  submission  to 
Satan's  will,  not  God's,  that  is  required  of  the 
sinner  ;  for  God's  will  is,  that  man  should  not 
only  desire  to  be  saved,  but  that  every  believing 
man  shall  be  saved  ;  while  Satan's  will  is,  that 
man  should  be  willing  to  be  lost,  and  should 
be  lost. 

''  Be  not  angry ;  I  resign, 
Henceforth,  all  my  will  to  Thine  : 
I  consent  that  Thou  depart 
Though  Thine  absence  breaks  my  heart ; 
Go,  then,  and  forever  too ; 
All  is  right  that  Thou  wilt  do. 
This  was  just  what  Love  intended. 
He  was  now  no  more  offended : 
Soon  as  I  became  a  child, 
Love  returned  to  me  and  smiled." 


Now  this  is  exaggeration  to  the  verge  of  impiety. 
God  says,  Woe  unto  them,  when  I  depart  from 
them.  And  in  all  the  realm  of  true  theology 
there  is  not  the  beginning  of  a  requisition  from 
God  that  any  of  His  creatures  should  be  willing 
to  have  Him  depart  from  them  forever.  Accord- 
ingly, we  see  how  different  was  the  character  of 
Cowper's  experience  ;  even  in  his  madness,  it  was 
more  consonant  with  God's  Word.     For  he  was 


IMAGINARY     SUBMISSION.  349 

not  willing  that  God  should  depart  from  him,  and 
while  a  ray  of  reason  remained,  he  could  not  be. 
And,  in  truth,  the  whole  essence  and  acuteness 
of  his  misery  was  in  just  this,  that  he  believed 
God  had  dej)arted  from  him  ;  and  hence  he  suffered, 
as  far  perhaps  as  any  creature  not  deserted  of 
God,  but  only  under  a  delusion,  could  suffer,  some- 
thing of  the  torture  of  eternal  despair.  If  this 
belief  had  always  prevailed,  as  in  some  exaspera- 
tions of  his  malady  it  did  prevail,  he  could  never 
have  put  pen  to  paper,  never  could  have  occupied 
his  exquisite  genius,  his  transparent  intellect,  so 
admirably  balanced  in  all  other  respects,  on  any 
subject  of  thought  whatever,  and  not  even  on  the 
subject  of  his  despair.  There  would  have  ensued 
the  blackness  and  confusion  of  an  absolute  chaos. 
Again,  and  again,  under  the  influence  of  such 
despair,  Cowper  exclaimed,  Oh,  that  I  had  never 
been  born,  or  that  I  could  cease  to  be,  forever ! 
How  much  truer  to  the  truth,  to  the  reality  of 
things,  in  this  matter,  was  Cowper's  madness  than 
Milton's  poetry  !  For  Milton  has  put  into  the 
mouth  of  one  of  his  lost  angels,  in  melancholy 
eloquence  of  language,  a  preference  of  continued 
existence,  even  in  despair  and  pain,  rather  than 
the  cure  by  annihilation. 

*'  And  that  must  end  us;  that  must  bo  our  cure, 
To  be  no  more :  sad  cure  I  for  who  would  lose, 
Though  full  of  pain,  this  intellectual  being. 
Those  thoughts  that  wander  through  eternity?" 


350  SUFFERING     WITH     HOPE. 

But  the  absence  of  God  from  the  soul,  and  an 
eternal  banishment  from  Him,  could  not  be  com- 
patible with  any  joy  or  consolation  from  the  thoughts 
that  wander  through  eternity,  at  least  was  not  in 
the  case  of  Cowper.  And  it  is  worthy  of  notice 
that  Milton  himself  has  ascribed  those  lines  to  a 
slothful  and  ignoble  devil,  ever  intent  on  making 
the  worse  appear  the  better  reason,  and  has  be- 
sides supposed  the  light  of  hope  still  shining,  and 
the  worst  not  known  ;  so  that  this  language  was 
not  the  language  of  despair.  The  fallen  spirit 
that  counseled  sloth,  not  peace,  imagined  still 
that  happier  days  might  wait  them  : 

"Our  Supreme  Foe  in  time  may  much  remit 
His  anger ;  and,  perhaps,  thus  far  removed, 
Nor  mind  us,  not  offending,  satisfied 
With  what  is  punished  :  whence  these  raging  fires 
Will  slacken  if  His  breath  stirs  not  their  flames. 
Our  purer  essence  then  will  overcome 
Their  noxious  vapor ;  or  inured,  not  feel ; 
Or  changed  at  length,  and  to  the  place  conformed 
In  temper  and  in  nature,  will  receive 
Familiar  the  fierce  heat,  and,  void  of  pain, 
This  horror  will  grow  mild,  this  darkness  light: 
Besides  what  hope  the  never-ending  flight 
Of  future  days  may  bring,  what  chance,  what  change 
Worth  waiting." 

This,  then,  is  the  reasoning,  not  even  of  im- 
aginary despair,  but  of  hope  ;  while  Cowper's  in- 
sanity was  the  adoption  of  what  the  feelings  and 
the  language  of  absolute  despair  would  have  been, 


SUFFERING     IN     DESPAIR.  351 

if  real.  Insanity  itself  is  truer  to  nature  than  in- 
sensibility and  unbelief;  and  insanity  is  preferable, 
in  such  an  interest,  to  ignorance,  presumption,  and 
misrepresentation. 

And  whatever  men  may  think  or  say  as  to  the 
cause  of  Cowper's  insanity,  there  is  a  most  in- 
structive lesson  from  its  manifestation.  It  is  a 
very  solemn  picture  of  the  misery  which  may  and 
must  be  consequent  on  the  destruction  of  all  hope 
in  the  eternal  world.  It  can  not  be  borne.  The 
best  constituted  and  the  strongest  mind  can  not 
endure  it.  If  ever  any  man  had  a  combination  of 
faculties  and  feelings,  of  genius  and  affection,  which 
could  enable  him  to  bear  up  under  the  pressure 
of  sorrows,  it  was  Cowper.  He  united  in  his  own 
heart  and  intellect  a  sensitive  nervous  suscepti- 
bility, both  natural  and  spiritual,  to  the  touches 
both  of  sorrow  and  joy,  and  a  tender,  compassion- 
ate concern  for  others'  distresses,  along  with  an 
elastic,  buoyant  spirit,  a  native  power  of  humor, 
and  an  exquisite  relish  of  true  wit  and  drollery, 
that  could  seize  the  element  of  laughter,  even 
amid  care  and  pain,  and  for  the  moment  forget 
every  thing  but  the  ludicrous.  Naturally,  he 
loved  to  look  on  the  bright  side,  not  the  dark,  and 
was  not  to  be  imposed  upon  by  the  exaggeration 
of  difficulties. 

Now  in  all  common  suffering,  oil  suffering  this 
side  that  world  where  there  is  no  suffering  which  is 


352  a     wounded    s  ij  i  r  i  t  . 

not  endless,  these  faculties,  this  happy  constitution 
of  mind  and  heart,  would  bear  up  a  man  through 
great  conflicts,  would  support  and  encourage  him. 
The  spirit  of  such  a  man  could  sustain  his  in- 
firmity ;  hut  take  away  hope,  and  a  spirit  so 
wounded,  who  can  bear  ?  No  man,  even  in  this 
life,  can  endure  even  the  delusion  of  despair,  the 
moment  it  approaches  much  resemblance  to  the 
reality.  It  is  truly  an  infernal  power,  a  power  of 
madness,  contradictory  and  chaotic,  demonstrated 
by  its  hurrying  even  through  self-murder,  into  the 
reality,  beforehand.  The  very  image  is  so  terri- 
rible,  that  it  takes  away  the  reason.  And  faith  in 
Christ,  humble,  affectionate  confidence  in  Him,  is 
the  only  true  keeper  of  the  reason  of  a  fallen 
man.  The  peace  of  God,  that  passeth  all  under- 
standing, keeps  both  heart  and  mind  in  Christ 
Jesus,  and  that  only  can. 

And  here,  we  must  remark,  what  has  never 
been  properly  noted,  the  characteristic  of  Cowper's 
insanity,  as  only  against  himself,  but  gentle,  kind, 
affectionate,  and  loving  toward  all  others.  The 
whole  circle  and  combination  of  his  intellectual 
powers  were  transfused  with  adoration  and  love 
toward  the  Redeemer,  and  charity  toward  all 
mankind.  His  were  a  mind  and  affections  sancti- 
fied, a  tender  conscience  in  reference  to  himself,  a 
tender  sympathy  and  forbearance  toward  others, 
entire  freedom  from  bigotry,  yet  a  most  holvrever- 


SUPERNATURAL  PHENOMENON.  353 

ence  toward  God,  an  ardent  love  of  the  truth,  and 
a  jealousy  for  its  purity,  glory,  and  defense  ;  every 
fruit,  and  all  the  graces  of  the  Spirit,  in  their 
turn,  excepting  that  of  hope  only.  A  most  extra- 
ordinary nature,  a  most  marvelous  development, 
a  manifestation  of  piety,  and  a  growth  of  holi- 
ness, even  in  a  frozen  zone,  such  as  earth  has 
rarely,  if  ever  witnessed  ;  the  growth  of  righteous- 
ness, even  where  the  beams  of  the  Sun  of  Right- 
eousness were  intercepted  by  a  malignant  eclipse, 
nearly  life-long  !  A  warm  and  open  Polar  Sea, 
and  banks  of  tropical  shrubbery  and  flowers  upon 
its  borders,  amid  surrounding  ice-mountains,  and 
beneath  an  atmosphere  so  freezing,  that  whole 
ships'  crews  have  been  rigidly  fastened  to  their 
decks  in  death,  even  in  the  work  of  exploration, 
would  not  be  so  supernatural  a  phenomenon.  This 
is  what  God  can  do,  but  not  man  ;  grace,  even  de- 
nied and  invisible,  but  not  morality. 

Moreover,  there  was  never,  in  Cowper's  insanity, 
any  thing  of  the  ordinary  repulsive  or  terrible 
character  of  madness,  nor  any  approximation 
thereto  ;  never  any  malignity  or  fierceness  toward 
others,  but  even  in  the  uttermost  sullenness  of 
gloom,  a  timidity  and  meekness  ;  a  harmlessness, 
as  divested  of  the  power  and  the  disposition  of 
violence  and  passion,  as  a  crushed  rose-bud,  or  a 
daisy  trodden  under  foot.  Hence  the  singular  im- 
propriety and  want  of  truth  in  that  expression  of 


854  PORTRAITS     OF    COWPER. 

Leigh  Hunt  in  regard  to  Cowper's  picture,  that  it 
developed  "  a  fire  fiercer  than  that  either  of  intel- 
lect or  fancy,  gleaming  from  the  raised  and  pro- 
truded eye/'  If  that  fierceness  was  in  Romney's 
painting,  it  was  wholly  false  to  the  original ;  for 
none  of  his  dearest  and  most  intimate  friends  ever 
saw  it,  or  imagined  it,  in  Cowper's  own  counte- 
nance ;  and  it  certainly  never  existed  in  his  mel- 
ancholy. The  thing  lay  wholly  in  the  imagination 
of  the  critic  ;  for  neither  in  the  mind,  nor  looking 
out  at  the  eve.  was  there  ever  anv  flashing:  of  such 
a  fire  ;  only  a  pensive  or  suffering  expression,  hut 
never  a  crazy,  nor  aggressive,  nor  glaring  light.  If 
such  light  were  in  the  portrait,  it  would  be  a  sure 
test  of  its  untruth,  and  of  the  ambitious,  hand  of 
a  painter  striking  at  a  caricature  ;  but  it  is  en- 
tirely unlikely  that  Romney  had  any  such  inten- 
tion or  idea.  Hayley  regarded  the  portrait  as  one 
of  the  most  faithful  and  masterly  resemblances  he 
ever  beheld  ;  and  Cowper  thought  it  strange  that 
it  should  show  no  marks  of  his  own  habitual  sor- 
row. Absurd,  indeed,  it  was  to  speak  of  a  fierce 
fire  as  gleaming  from  the  eye  ;  absurd  to  imagine 
any  ground  for  such  a  representation  in  the  char- 
acter or  habitual  expression  of  the  poet.  Cowper's 
sonnet  to  the  painter  was  composed  in  1792. 

Romney !  expert  infallibly  to  trace 
On  chart  or  canvas,  not  the  form  alone 
And  semblance,  but,  however  faintly  shown, 
The  mind's  impression,  too,  on  every  face. 


romney's    portrait.  355 

With  strokes  that  time  ought  never  to  erase : 

Thou  hast  so  pencil'd  mine,  that  though  I  own 

The  subject  worthless,  I  have  never  known 

The  artist  shining  with  superior  grace. 

But  this  I  mark,  that  symptoms  none  of  woe 

In  thy  incomparable  work  appear : 

Well !  I  am  satisfied  it  should  be  so, 

Since,  on  maturer  thought,  the  cause  is  clear ; 

For  in  my  looks  what  sorrow  couldst  thou  see, 

When  I  was  Hay  ley's  guest,  and  sat  to  thee  ? 

The  absurdity  of  supposing  that  the  painter 
had  either  detected  or  portrayed  the  fire  of  in- 
sanity in  a  face,  the  owner  of  which  was  in  the 
perfect  possession  and  exercise  of  the  gentlest 
affections,  and  of  a  cairn  and  reasoning  mind,  at 
the  time  when  the  portrait  was  taken,  and  had 
been  for  twenty  years,  with  the  exception  of  an 
interval  of  six  months,  is  exceedingly  great.  The 
only  interval  of  insanity  from  1773  to  1792,  the 
time  when  the  portrait  was  taken,  had  been  in  the 
year  1787  ;  and  even  in  that  attack  there  does  not 
appear  to  have  been  any  of  the  glaring  of  this  un- 
natural fire,  but  simply  the  lowest  depths  of  men- 
tal despondency  and  suffering.  To  suppose  that 
the  expression  of  such  a  transitory  interval  would 
predominate  in  Cowper's  eye  over  the  habitual 
character  of  twenty  years  of  peacefulness  and 
heavenly  affection,  would  be  contrary  to  all  fact 
and  reason  ;  and  it  is  the  veriest  affectation  or 
frenzy  of  critical  discernment  to  imagine  such  an 
expression  on  the  canvas. 


3<3G  iBBOT'fl     P  0  B  I  K  A  I  T  . 

Mr.  Grimshaw,  indeed,  says  that  there  was  an  air 
of  wildness  in  Roniney's  portrait  of  Cowper,  ex- 
pressive of  a  disordered  mind,  which  the  shock 
produced  by  the  paralytic  attack  of  Mrs.  Unwin 
was  rapidly  impressing  on  his  countenance.  The 
portrait  by  Abbot  was  that  of  his  customary  and 
more  placid  features.  ISTow  since  Abbot's  portrait 
was  taken  more  immediately  after  Mrs.  Unwin's 
illness  than  Roinney's,  if  Cowper's  features  had 
worn  that  air  of  wildness  at  all,  it  would  most 
likely  have  been  at  that  time  ;  in  fact,  when 
Romney  painted  him,  Mrs.  Unwin  had  received  so 
much  benefit  from  the  journey  to  Eartham,  that 
Cowper  was  greatly  comforted,  and  in  the  very 
letter  in  which  he  announced  to  Lady  Hesketh  the 
completion  of  Ronmey's  picture,  he  says  concern- 
ing himself,  "  I  am,  without  the  least  dissimula- 
tion, in  good  health  ;  my  spirits  are  about  as  good 
as  you  "have  ever  seen  them  ;  and  if  increase  of 
appetite  and  a  double  portion  of  sleep  be  advan- 
tageous, such  are  the  advantages  that  I  have  re- 
ceived from  this  migration.  As  to  that  gloominess 
of  mind  which  I  have  had  these  twenty  years,  it 
cleaves  to  me  even  here,  and,  could  I  be  translated 
to  Paradise,  unless  I  left  my  body  behind  me, 
would  cleave  to  me  even  there  also.  It  is  my 
companion  for  life,  and  nothing  will  ever  divorce 
us." 

The  wildness  in  Cowper's  face  at  this  time,  if 


EXACT      RESEMBLANCE.  357 

Ronmey  threw  such  an  expression  on  the  canvas, 
was  purely  fanciful,  and  Cowper  himself  would 
have  detected  and  marked  it  sooner  than  any  one, 
had  there  been  the  fierce  fire  of  insanity  glaring 
from  the  eye.  But  neither  his  friends  nor  himself 
saw  any  such  expression,  though  all  agreed  it  was 
the  most  exact  resemblance  possible. 

In  a  letter  written  near  this  period  to  Mrs. 
Charlotte  Smith  the  authoress,  Cowper  gives  ex- 
pression to  a  very  beautiful  and  tender  train  of 
contemplations  awakened  in  his  pensive  mind  by 
one  of  her  remarks  to  Hayley.  "I  was  much 
struck,"  says  he,  "  by  an  expression  in  your  letter 
to  Hayley,  where  you  say  that  you  will  endeavor 
to  take  an  interest  in  green  leaves  again.  This 
seems  the  sound  of  my  own  voice  reflected  to  me 
from  a  distance,  I  have  so  often  had  the  same 
thought  and  desire.  A  day  scarcely  passes  at  this 
season  of  the  year,  when  I  do  not  contemplate  the 
trees  so  soon  to  be  stripped,  and  say,  Perhaps  I 
shall  never  see  you  clothed  again.  Every  year  as 
it  passes  makes  this  expectation  more  reasonable  ; 
and  the  year  with  me  can  not  be  very  distant, 
when  the  event  will  verify  it.  Well !  may  God 
grant  us  a  good  hope  of  arriving  in  due  time, 
where  the  leaves  never  fall,  and  all  will  be 
right  r 

This  was  written  in  the  autumn  of  1792,  and 
only  one  more  Spring  ever  came,  in  which  that 


358  L  A  \V  B  E  K  e  B  '  6     1'  (J  B  I  B  AIT. 

sensitive  Christian  poet,  who  had  loved  nature 
with  such  unaffected  love,  coidd  ever  again  take 
his  wonted  interest  in  green  leaves.  The  last 
years  of  his  and  Mrs.  Unwin's  life  were  like  the 
ominous  evolutions  of  a  Greek  tragedy,  distinctly 
foreboded,  and  gloomily  marching  on  with  the  de- 
cision of  inexorable  fate. 

A  year  and  more  after  the  date  of  Komney's 
painting,  Lawrence  executed  another  portrait  of 
Cowper,  in  which,  if  in  either  of  the  three,  the 
indications  of  gloom  and  wildness  must  have  been 
visible,  if  drawn  from  nature.  For  it  was  at  this 
time,  October,  1793,  that  Cowper  was  in  the 
greatest  distress  between  the  pressure  of  his  mel- 
ancholy, the  burden  of  engagements  which  he 
could  not  fulfill,  and  his  anxiety  of  mind  for  poor 
Mrs.  Unwin  ;  yet  in  Lawrence's  picture  there  was 
not  the  least  trace  of  the  imagined  supernatural 
fire. 

Early  in  November,  Hayley  paid  him  another 
visit,  and  it  was  the  last  in  which  Cowper's 
afflicted  reason  could  enjoy  a  gleam  of  happiness. 
It  was  in  reference  to  this  visit  that  Hayley  wrote 
his  interesting  description  of  the  evils  that  seemed 
impending  over  the  once  cheerful  household  of  his 
dear  friend.  "  My  fears  for  him  in  every  point  of 
view  were  alarmed  by  his  present  very  singular 
condition.  He  possessed  completely  at  this  period 
all  the  admirable  faculties  of  his  mind,  and  all  the 


HAYLEY     AT     WESTON.  359 

native  tenderness  of  his  heart ;  but  there  was 
something  indescribable  in  his  appearance  which 
led  me  to  apprehend  that  without  some  signal 
event  in  his  favor,  to  reanimate  his  spirits,  they 
would  gradually  sink  into  hopeless  dejection.  The 
state  of  his  aged,  infirm  companion,  afforded  addi- 
tional ground  for  increasing  solicitude.  Her  cheer- 
ful and  beneficent  spirit  could  hardly  resist  her 
own  accumulated  maladies,  so  far  as  to  preserve 
ability  sufficient  to  watch  over  the  tender  health 
of  him  whom  she  had  watched  and  guarded  so 
long." 

Only  two  months  afterward,  in  1794,  Cowper 
wrote  to  his  dear  friend  Kose,  saying,  "  I  have  just 
ability  enough  to  transcribe,  which  is  all  that  I 
have  to  do  at  present ;  God  knows  that  I  write  at 
this  moment  under  the  pressure  of  sadness  not  to 
be  described."  In  the  course  of  two  months  more, 
Hayley  was  informed  by  a  letter  from  Mr.  Great- 
heed  of  the  deplorable  condition  of  Cowper  beneath 
such  an  increase  of  his  gloom,  as  almost  to  deprive 
him  of  the  use  of  every  faculty,  threatening  in- 
deed a  speedy  close  of  life.  This  letter  was  dated 
April  8th,  1794,  and  Hayley  immediately  on  the 
receipt  of  it  hastened  to  Weston  ;  but  his  clear 
friend  was  so  profoundly  overwhelmed  and  op- 
pressed beneath  the  anxiety  and  despair  produced 
by  the  physical  and  mental  malady,  that  he  took 
no  welcome  notice  of  his  coming,  nor  at  any  time 


3tf0 


n.VYLEY     AT     WESTON 


could  manifest  the  least  sign  of  pleasure  at  his 
presence ;  although  a  few  months  before,  nothing  on 
earth  except  the  presence  of  Lady  Hesketh,  whom 
he  loved  with  as  much  tenderness  as  a  sister, 
could  have  given  him  such  delight  as  Hayley's 
visit. 


CHAPTER    XXVIII. 

cowper's  complaint  and  jeremiah's. — sincerity  of  cowper 
in  every  expression  of  christian  feeling. — letter  to  mr. 
rose. — letters  to  untvin  and  newton. — christian  experi- 
ence in  spite  of  despair. christian  sympathy  in  others' 

trials. — poem  on  the  four  ages. — mrs.   unwin's   illness 
and  cowper's  gloom. — poem  to  mary. 

The  first  eighteen  verses  of  the  third  chapter 
of  the  Lamentations  of  Jeremiah  are  a  most  per- 
fect representation  of  the  belief  and  experience  of 
Cowper  for  the  greater  part  of  twenty  years.  "  I 
am  the  man  that  hath  seen  affliction  by  the  rod  of 
His  wrath.  He  hath  led  me  and  brought  me  into 
darkness,  but  not  into  light.  Surely,  against  me 
He  is  turned  ;  He  turneth  His  hand  against  me 
all  the  day.  He  hath  set  me  in  dark  places,  as 
they  that  be  dead  of  old.  He  hath  hedged  me 
about  that  I  can  not  get  out ;  He  hath  made  my 
chain  heavy.  Also,  when  I  cry  and  shout,  He 
shutteth  out  my  prayer.  He  hath  filled  me  with 
bitterness,  He  hath  made  me  drunken  with  worm- 
wood. He  hath  also  broken  my  teeth  with  gravel- 
stones,  He  hath  covered  me  with  ashes.  And 
16 


362     THE  MOURNING  PROPHET. 

I  said,  My  strength  and  my  hope  arc  perished  from 
the  Lord." 

But  the  misery  of  Cowper  was,  that  in  his  case, 
that  which,  with  the  afflicted  and  mourning 
prophet,  was  the  language  of  grief  and  of  hope- 
lessness in  regard  to  the  overwhelming  external 
desolations  that  had  overtaken  his  beloved  country 
in  God's  wrath  (and  he  himself  a  hopeless  sufferer 
in  all  those  calamities),  described  a  personal  de- 
spair. The  prophet  could  say,  after  all  this  most 
graphic  catalogue  of  his  woes,  "  The  Lord  is  my 
portion,  saith  my  soul ;  therefore  will  I  hope  in 
Him.  The  Lord  is  good  unto  them  that  wait  for 
Him  :  to  the  soul  that  seeketh  Him.  It  is  good 
that  a  man  should  both  hope  and  quietly  wait  for 
the  salvation  of  the  Lord.  For  the  Lord  will  not 
cast  off  forever ;  but  though  He  cause  grief,  yet 
will  He  have  compassion  according  to  the  multi- 
tude of  his  mercies.  I  called  upon  Thy  name,  0 
Lord,  out  of  the  low  dungeon.  Thou  hast  heard 
my  voice.  Thou  drewest  near  in  the  day  that  I 
called  upon  Thee,  thou  saidst,  Fear  not.  0  Lord, 
Thou  hast  pleaded  the  causes  of  my  soul,  Thou 
hast  redeemed  my  life." 

But  Cowper's  inexorable  despair  was  continually 
crying,  God  is  against  me  ;  I  am  cut  off  forever 
from  the  light  of  the  living,  from  the  possibility 
of  His  mercy.  Actum  est  de  to  ;  periisti  :  My 
hope  is   perished  from   the   Lord    forever  !     And 


HOPE     IMTERISHABLE.  363 

often  he  was  compelled  to  cry  out  with  the  Psalm- 
ist, "  While  I  suffer  Thy  terrors,  I  am  distracted. 
Thy  fierce  wrath  goeth  over  me,  and  Thou  hast 
afflicted  me  with  all  Thy  waves/' 

Yet  never  did  Cowper's  confidence  in  God's 
goodness  fail ;  and  even  through  all  this  thick 
spiritual  darkness,  he  was  full  of  gratitude  for  the 
providential  mercies  of  his  Heavenly  Father  while 
reason  remained  ;  nor  did  any  Christian  ever  take 
greater  delight  in  observing  and  recounting  the 
footsteps  of  God's  providence,  and  the  marks  of 
His  interposing  love.  He  was  always  ready  to  say 
with  Jeremiah,  "It  is  of  the  Lord's  mercies  that 
we  are  not  consumed,  because  His  compassions 
fail  not.  They  are  new  every  morning  ;  great  is 
Thy  faithfulness." 

Moreover,  we  have  seen  at  the  bottom  of  all 
Cowper's  complaints  some  remnant  still  of  hope, 
some  persevering  conviction,  as  obstinate  as  his 
despair  itself,  of  the  possibility  that  God  might 
yet  interpose  in  his  behalf,  and  deliver  him  from 
what  would  then  and  thus  be  demonstrated  to 
have  been  the  affliction  of  insanity,  an  imagination 
of  a  banishment  from  God,  the  work  of  an  unset- 
tled reason  under  the  buffetings  of  malignant 
spiritual  foes.  And  we  must  bear  in  mind  the 
anxious  sincerity  and  carefulness  of  Cowper  in 
every  expression  of  his  feelings,  not  to  transcend 
the  limits   of  his   own  actual   experience  in  any 


364  CHRISTIAN     HOPE. 

Christian  sentiment  to  which  he  ever  gave  utter- 
ance. 

The  exquisite  simplicity  and  transparency  of 
his  heart  as  well  as  intellect,  his  freedom  from  all 
pretense  and  guile,  and  from  all  affectation  of  any 
kind  of  ability  or  attainment  which  he  did  not 
possess,  are  to  be  remembered  in  perusing  Cowper's 
letters  of  sympathy  with  the  sorrows  of  his  dearest 
friends.  When  we  find  him  saying  in  effect, 
Courage,  my  brother  !  we  shall  soon  rejoin  our  lost 
one,  and  many  whom  we  have  tenderly  loved, 
"  our  forerunners  into  a  better  country,"  the  con- 
solation is  so  conveyed  that  we  should  feel  as  if  it 
were  almost  a  deception,  if  the  writer  himself 
were  not  a  partaker  of  it.  Just  so,  in  all  those 
sweet  allusions  now  and  then  in  Cowper's  letters 
to  the  grounds  of  a  Christian  hope  ;  they  are  so 
expressed  that  it  is  impossible  not  to  feel  assured 
that  they  do  not  and  can  not  proceed  from  a  heart 
that  feels  as  if  God  were  an  enemy,  or  believes 
that  its  own  sins  are  not  and  can  not  be  forgiven. 
There  is  the  Christian  hope  in  such  expressions,  by 
whatever  depths  of  doubt  surrounded.  Take,  for 
instance,  the  close  of  a  letter,  in  1791,  to  the  Kev. 
Walter  Bagot.  "  If  God  forgive  me  my  sins, 
surely  I  shall  love  Him  much,  for  I  have  much  to 
be  forgiven.  But  the  quantum  need  not  discour- 
age me,  since  there  is  One  whose  atonement  can 
suffice  for  all." 


CHRISTIAN     GRATITUDE.  365 

Again,  the  record  of  Christian  experience  in  a 
letter  to  the  Kev.  Mr.  Hurdis,  in  1793,  is  not  con- 
sistent with  the  entire  absence  of  hope,  but  inti- 
mates both  the  possession  of  a  personal  faith  in 
the  Lord  Jesus,  and  the  experience  of  deep  grati- 
tude for  the  privilege  of  being  permitted  to  exer- 
cise it.  Cowper  is  speaking  of  the  effect  of  ad- 
versity. "  Your  candid  account,"  says  he,  "  of  the 
effect  that  your  afflictions  have,  both  on  your  spir- 
its and  temper,  I  can  perfectly  understand,  having 
labored  much  in  that  fire  myself,  and  perhaps  more 
than  any  other  man.  It  is  in  such  a  school,  how- 
ever, that  we  must  learn,  if  we  ever  truly  learn  it, 
the  natural  depravity  of  the  human  heart,  and  of 
our  own  in  particular,  together  with  the  conse- 
quence that  necessarily  follows  such  wretched 
premises  ;  our  indispensable  need  of  the  atone- 
ment, and  our  inexpressible  obligations  to  Him 
who  made  it.  This  reflection  can  not  escape  a 
thinking  mind,  looking  back  to  those  ebullitions 
of  fretfulness  and  impatience  to  which  it  has 
yielded  in  a  season  of  great  affliction." 

Our  inexpressible  obligations.  It  is  clear  that 
Cowper  felt  them  personally  ;  but  how  could  this 
have  been,  had  he  really  and  truly  believed  himself 
shut  out,  by  a  solitary  and  anomalous  decree,  from 
the  eternal  benefit  of  the  atonement  ?  Here, 
then,  an  unacknowledged,  and  almost  unconscious, 
yet  imperishable  hope,  contradicted  the  logic  of 


30b'   LIFE  IN   A   VINEGAR  BOTTLE. 

his  despair,  as  profoundly  as  his  despair  itself 
contradicted  the  assurances  of  Scripture  and  of 
reason. 

"  Every  proof  of  attention  to  a  man  who  lives 
in  a  vinegar  Dottle/'  said  Covvper  to  his  friend  Mr. 
Unwin,  "  is  welcome  from  his  friends  on  the  out- 
side of  it."  Even  in  this  vinegar  bottle,  Cowper 
could  make  merry  with  the  surrounding  world,  as 
seen  through  the  prism  of  his  own  melancholy. 
He  told  Mr.  Unwin,  in  this  same  letter,  that  he 
forgave  Dr.  Johnson  all  the  trivial  and  supersti- 
tious dotage  in  his  diary,  for  the  sake  of  one  piece 
of  instruction,  namely,  never  to  banish  hope  en- 
tirely, because  it  is  the  cordial  of  life,  although  it 
be  the  greatest  flatterer  in  the  wrorld.  He  adds, 
in  regard  to  his  own  case,  (i  such  a  measure  of  hope 
as  may  not  endanger  my  peace  by  a  disappoint- 
ment, I  would  wish  to  cherish  upon  every  subject 
in  which  I  am  interested.  A  cure,  however,  and 
the  only  one,  for  all  the  irregularities  of  hope  and 
fear,  is  found  in  submission  to  the  will  of  God. 
Happy  they  that  have  it." 

He  told  Newton,  during  that  same  year,  1785,  that 
within  eight  months  he  had  had  his  hopes,  though 
they  had  been  of  short  duration,  and  cut  off  like  the 
foam  upon  the  waters.  "  Some  previous  adjust- 
ments, indeed,  are  necessary,  before  a  lasting  ex- 
pectation of  comfort  can  have  place  in  me.  There 
are  persuasions  in  my  mind,  which  either  entirely 


LETTERS     TO     NEWTON.  367 

forbid  the  entrance  of  hope,  or,  if  it  enter,  imme- 
diately eject  it.  They  are  incompatible  with  any 
such  inmate,  and  must  be  turned  out  themselves, 
before  so  desirable  a  guest  can  possibly  have  secure 
possession.  This,  you  say,  will  be  done.  It  may 
be,  but  it  is  not  done  yet,  nor  has  a  single  step 
in  the  course  of  God's  dealings  with  me  been  taken 
toward  it.  If  I  mend,  no  creature  ever  mended 
so  slowly  that  recovered  at  last.  I  am  like  a  slug, 
or  snail,  that  has  fallen  into  a  deep  well ;  slug  as 
he  is,  he  performs  his  descent  with  an  alacrity  pro- 
portioned to  his  weight ;  but  he  does  not  crawl  up 
again  quite  so  fast.  Mine  was  a  rapid  plunge,  but 
my  return  to  daylight,  if  I  am  indeed  returning, 
is  leisurely  enough." 

Cowper  then  beautifully  refers  to  the  value 
which  he  set  upon  Newton's  letters,  and  to  the 
circumstances  under  which  the  two  friends  first 
knew  each  other.  "  Your  connection  with  me  was 
the  work  of  God.  The  kine  that  went  up  with 
the  ark  from  Bethshemesh  left  what  they  loved 
behind  them,  in  obedience  to  an  impression  which 
to  them  was  perfectly  dark  and  unintelligible. 
Your  journey  to  Huntingdon  was  not  less  wonder- 
ful. He,  indeed,  who  sent  you,  knew  well  where- 
fore, but  you  knew  not."  He  then  speaks  of  his 
own  change  under  the  gloom  that  had  afflicted 
him,  and  of  the  constant  affection  of  his  friends. 
"I  can  say  nothing  of  myself  at  present  ;  but  this 


368         FREEDOM     AND     FRANKNESS. 

I  can  venture  to  foretell,  that  should  the  restora- 
tion, of  which  my  friends  assure  me,  obtain,  I  shall 
undoubtedly  love  those  who  have  continued  to  love 
me,  even  in  a  state  of  transition  from  my  former 
self,  much  more  than  ever.  I  doubt  not  that 
Nebuchadnezzar  had  fiiends  in  his  prosperity  ;  all 
kings  have  many.  But  when  his  nails  became  like 
eagles'  claws,  and  he  ate  grass  like  an  ox,  I  sup- 
pose he  had  few  to  pity  him/' 

In  one  of  his  letters  to  Mr.  Rose,  in  1783,  Cowper 
apologized  at  the  close  of  it  for  the  sermonizing 
strain  in  which  he  said  he  had  written  it.  But  he 
added,  "  I  always  follow  the  leading  of  my  uncon- 
strained thoughts  when  I  write  to  a  friend,  be  they 
grave  or  otherwise."  At  the  beginning  of  this  let- 
ter, Cowper  excused  himself  for  not  answering  Mr. 
Rose's  epistle  sooner,  and  told  him  that  an  unan- 
swered letter  troubled  his  conscience  in  some  de- 
gree like  a  crime,  and  that  he  approached  him 
once  more  in  the  correspondence  not  altogether 
despairing  of  forgiveness.  If  this  letter  had  been 
written  to  Newton  instead  of  Mr.  Rose,  Southey 
would  probably  have  taken  the  opportunity  to 
renew  his  insinuation  that  Cowper  was  always  ser- 
monizing to  Newton,  and  went  to  his  correspond- 
ence with,  him  as  unwillingly  as  if  were  going  to 
confession.  This  letter  to  Mr.  Rose  is  a  complete 
answer  to  so  dishonorable  an  imputation.  Cowper 
never  wrote,  never  ivould  write,  under  constraint, 


FREEDOM      AND      FRANKNESS.         869 

much  less  would  he  sermonize  to  please  others, 
when  his  heart  did  not  dictate  the  strain  of  re- 
mark His  correspondence  with  Newton  is  as  free 
and  familiar  as  with  any  of  his  friends,  and  it  was 
always  unaffectedly  and  delightfully  easy  with 
them  all. 

One  of  his  letters  to  Newton  beautifully  de- 
scribes the  insupportable  irksomeness  of  a  state  of 
confinement  or  restraint.  Other  letters  equally 
manifest  his  independence  and  frankness,  and  the 
indignation  with  wThich  he  could  repel  a  false  ac- 
cusation. "  I  could  not  endure  the  room  in  which 
I  now  write,"  says  he,  u  were  I  conscious  that  the 
door  were  locked.  In  less  than  five  minutes  I 
should  feel  myself  a  prisoner,  though  I  can  spend 
hoars  in  it,  under  an  assurance  that  I  may  leave  it 
when  I  please,  without  experiencing  any  tedium  at 
all.  It  was  for  this  reason,  I  suppose,  that  the 
yacht  was  always  disagreeable  to  me.  I  make 
little  doubt  but  Noah  was  glad  when  he  was  en- 
larged from  the  ark  ;  and  we  are  sure  that  Jonah 
was  when  he  came  out  of  the  fish  ;  and  so  was  I 
to  escape  from  the  good  sloop  Harriet." 

All  the  efforts  of  Cowper's  original  genius  were 

spontaneous  efforts,  and  even  the  translation  of 

Homer  was  a  great  work,  into  which  he  fell  as  by 

accident,  while  pursuing  a  mere  experiment,  and 

afterward  continued  it  to  the  end,  as  a  ship  by 

stress  of  weather  must  sometimes  run  before  the 
16* 


370  THE     M1LTONI  A  N      TRAP. 

gale  all  the  way  across  an  ocean,  unable  to  put 
into  a  harbor.  When  he  had  finished  that  work, 
his  mind  once  more  reverted  frequently  and  with 
fondness  to  the  happier  employment  more  con- 
genial with  his  tastes,  and  suggested  by  his  in- 
evitable consciousness  of  renewed  poetical  power. 

Under  these  circumstances,  it  was  much  to  be 
regretted  that  any  new  engagements  with  Milton 
or  Homer  should  have  been  laid  upon  him.  While 
harassed  by  obligations,  which,  once  assumed, 
rested  with  a  weight  upon  his  conscience,  he  felt 
as  if  a  lasso  had  been  thrown  over  his  genius,  and 
he  had  become  a  slave.  He  longed  to  be  engaged 
in  the  work  of  original  poetical  composition. 
"  How  often  do  I  wish  in  the  course  of  every  day," 
says  he,  in  a  letter  to  Hayley,  in  1792,  "  that  I 
could  be  employed  once  more  in  poetry,  and  how 
often,  of  course,  that  this  Miltonian  trap  had 
never  caught  me !  The  year  '92  shall  stand 
chronicled  in  my  remembrance  as  the  most  melan- 
choly that  I  have  ever  known,  except  the  few 
weeks  that  I  spent  at  Eartham  ;  and  such  it  has 
been,  principally  because,  being  engaged  to  Milton, 
I  felt  myself  no  longer  free  for  any  other  engage- 
ment. That  ill-fated  work,  impracticable  in  itself, 
has  made  every  thing  else  impracticable." 

Again,  to  Hayley,  in  1793:  "No!  I  shall 
neither  do,  nor  attempt  any  thing  of  consequence 
more,  unless   my  poor  Mary  get  better  ;   nor  even 


THE     FOUR     AGES.  871 

then  (unless  it  should  please  God  to  give  me  an- 
other nature)  in  concert  with  any  man  ;  I  could 
not,  even  with  my  own  father  or  brother,  were 
they  now  alive.  Small  game  must  serve  me  at 
present,  and  till  I  have  done  with  Homer  and 
Milton,  a  sonnet,  or  some  such  matter,  must  con- 
tent me.  The  utmost  that  I  aspire  to,  and 
Heaven  knows  with  how  feeble  a  hope,  is  to  write 
at  some  better  opportunity,  and  when  my  hands 
are  free,  '  The  Four  Ages/  Thus  have  I  opened 
my  heart  unto  thee." 

The  idea  of  a  poem  on  the  Four  Ages,  from  the 
first  moment  of  its  suggestion,  seems  to  have  filled 
the  mind  and  heart  of  Cowper  with  delight. 
Even  beneath  the  pressure  of  sorrow  and  despair, 
he  commenced  it  in  a  manner  so  sublime,  and  with 
execution  so  perfect,  that  if  it  had  been  com- 
pleted in  the  same  style,  it  would  have  been  in  no 
respect  inferior  to  "The  Task/'  but  probably  more 
profound  and  grand  in  thought  and  imagery.  He 
had  a  multitude  of  small  pieces,  from  which  he 
intended  to  make  a  selection,  and  add  them  to  the 
Four  Ages  in  one  volume.  Afterward  he  con- 
sented to  a  proposition  of  Hayley  to  unite  with 
him  in  the  authorship  of  the  proposed  poem,  and 
the  two  distinguished  artists,  Lawrence  and  Flax- 
man,  were  to  have  furnished  the  work  with  the  most 
exquisite  possible  designs.  Cowper  told  Hayley 
that  if  it  pleased  God  to  afford  him  health,  spirits, 


372  THE     FOUR     AGES. 

ability,  and  leisure,  he  would  nut  iail  to  devote 
them  all  to  the  production  of  his  quota  of  "  The 
Four  Ages." 

The  conception  of  this  poem  was  suggested  to 
Cowper  by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Buchanan,  a  clergyman 
at  Ravenstone,  near  Weston.  Having  become 
personally  acquainted  with  Cowper,  he  wrote  to 
him,  in  the  spring  of  1793,  such  a  plan  of  a  pro- 
posed poem  on  the  four  seasons  of  human  life,  in- 
fancy, youth,  manhood,  and  old  age,  that  Cowper 
was  filled  with  admiration,  both  of  the  sketch  and 
the  subject.  Mr.  Buchanan  rightly  judged  that  it 
would  be  peculiarly  suited  to  the  genius,  taste,  and 
piety  of  Cowper,  affording  the  happiest  possible 
field  for  the  exercise  of  all  his  exquisite  sensibili- 
ties, his  powers  of  imagination,  wit,  and  humor, 
his  playful  affections,  his  early  knowledge  of  the 
world,  his  attainments  in  religion,  and  the  wisdom 
he  had  gained  from  experience.  If  Lady  Austen's 
suggestion  of  the  Sofa  could  call  forth  such  happy 
trains  of  thought,  feeling,  and  imagery  from  Cow- 
per's  mind,  what  might  not  have  been  expected 
from  a  proposition  fraught  with  so  much  thought 
and  beauty,  the  intimated  outlines  of  which  so 
greatly  charmed  the  poet  that  he  immediately  ad- 
dressed his  friendly  correspondent  the  following 
letter : 

"  My  Dear  Sir — You  have  6ent  me  a  beautiful 
poem,  wanting   nothing  but   meter.     I  would  t^ 


THE     FOUR     AGES.  373 

Heaven  that  you  would  give  to  it  that  requisite 
yourself ;  for  he  who  could  make  the  sketch,  can 
not  but  be  well  qualified  to  finish.  But  if  you 
will  not,  I  will ;  provided  always,  nevertheless, 
that  God  gives  me  ability,  for  it  will  require  no 
common  share  to  do  justice  to  your  conceptions." 

But  Cowper  soon  began  to  fear,  as  he  said, 
"  that  all  his  own  ages  would  be  exhausted"  before 
he  should  find  leisure  to  engage  in  such  a  compo- 
sition ;  and  he  regretted  more  than  ever  the  en- 
gagement that  had  bound  him  down  to  Homer 
and  Milton.  It  was  with  this  feeling,  and  with 
sorrow  that  his  powers  could  not  have  been  em- 
ployed in  work  more  positively  Christian  in  its 
character,  that  he  composed  the  beautiful  sonnet 
to  "  his  kinsman  as  a  son  beloved,"  the  Eev.  Mr. 
Johnson,  who  had  presented  him  with  a  bust  of 
Homer,  "  the  sculptured  form  of  his  old  favorite 
bard."     It  awakened  in  him  both  joy  and  grief. 

The  grief  is  this,  that  sunk  in  Homer's  mine, 
I  lose  my  precious  years,  now  soon  to  fail ! 

Handling  his  gold,  which,  howsoe'er  it  shine, 

Proves  dross  when  balanced  in  the  Christian  scale  1 

Be  wiser,  thou !  like  our  forefather  Donne, 

Seek  heavenly  wealth,  and  work  for  God  alone ! 

At  a  still  later  date,  writing  to  Hayley,  he  says, 
in  regard  to  his  promised  labors  on  Milton,  he  feels 
like  a  man  who  has  sprained  his  wrist,  and  dreads 


374  TASK-WORK. 

to  use  it.  "  The  consciousness  that  there  is  so 
much  to  do,  and  nothing  done,  is  a  burden  I  am 
not  able  to  bear.  Milton  especially  is  my  griev- 
ance, and  I  might  almost  as  well  be  haunted  by 
his  ghost,  as  goaded  with  continual  reproaches  for 
neglecting  him." 

Writing  to  Hayley,  in  the  spring  of  1793,  he 
says  :  "  Sometimes  I  am  seriously  almost  crazed 
with  the  multiplicity  of  the  matters  before  me, 
and  the  little  or  no  time  I  have  for  them  ;  and 
sometimes  I  repose  myself  after  the  fatigue  of  that 
distraction  on  the  pillow  of  despair ;  a  pillow 
which  has  often  served  me  in  the  time  of  need, 
and  is  become,  by  frequent  use,  if  not  very  com- 
fortable, at  least  convenient.  So  reposed,  I  laugh 
at  the  world  and  say,  Yes,  you  may  gape,  and  ex- 
pect both  Homer  and  Milton  from  me,  but  I  '11  be 
hanged  if  ever  you  get  them." 

The  combination  of  such  tasks  with  the  care  of 
his  dear  helpless  friend,  and  his  extreme  anxiety 
and  watchfulness  on  her  account,  proved  entirely 
too  much  for  Cowper's  nervous  system.  It  was 
overtasked  before  he  was  aware. 

Speaking  of  Mrs.  Unwinds  long-continued  watch- 
fulness over  Cowper's  health,  and  affectionate  min- 
istrations to  his  comfort,  Hayley  described  in 
tender  and  guarded  language  the  change  pro- 
duced in  her  by  the  effects  of  paralysis  ;  a  change, 
the  contemplation  of  which,  undoubtedly,  was  one 


CARE     OF     MRS.     UHWIN.  370 

exasperating  cause  of  the  final  attack  of  Cowpers 
malady.  Hayley's  last  visit  to  Cowper,  that  could 
afford  any  pleasure,  was  only  two  months  before 
that  attack,  and  the  sight  of  Mrs.  Unwinds  in- 
creasing helplessness,  both  physical  and  mental, 
was  very  painful,  the  more  so,  as  it  was  then  im- 
possible to  withdraw  Cowper  from  the  constant 
care  and  anxiety  which  in  his  turn  he  endured  for 
her.  "  Imbecility  of  body  and  mind/'  says  Hay- 
ley,  "  must  gradually  render  this  tender  and  heroic 
woman  unfit  for  the  charge  which  she  had  so 
laudably  sustained.  The  signs  of  such  imbecility 
were  beginning  to  be  painfully  visible  ;  nor  can 
nature  present  a  spectacle  more  truly  pitiable  than 
imbecility  in  such  a  shape,  eagerly  grasping  for 
dominion,  which  it  knows  not  either  how  to  retain 
or  how  to  relinquish." 

How  Cowper  himself  felt  in  the  sight  of  Mrs. 
Unwin's  increasing  infirmities  and  helplessness,  is 
made  affectingly  clear  in  that  most  pathetic  poem 
addressed  to  her  at  this  time,  with  the  simple 
title,  "  To  Mary." 

The  twentieth  year  is  well-nigh  past, 

Since  first  our  sky  was  overcast, 

Ah,  would  that  this  might  be  the  last  I 

My  Mary ! 

Thy  spirits  have  a  fainter  flow, 
I  see  thee  daily  weaker  grow ; 
'T  was  my  distress  that  brought  thee  low, 

My  Mary ! 


376  POEM      TO      MARY. 

Thy  needles,  once  a  shining  store, 
For  my  sake  restless  heretofore, 
Now  rust  disused,  and  shine  no  more, 

My  Mary  1 

For  though  thou  gladly  wouldst  fulfill 
The  same  kind  office  for  me  still, 
Thy  sight  now  seconds  not  thy  will, 

My  Mary ! 

But  well  thou  play'dst  the  housewife's  part  j 
And  all  thy  threads  with  magic  art, 
Have  wound  themselves  about  this  heart, 

My  Maryl 

Thy  indistinct  expressions  seem 
Like  language  uttered  in  a  dream ; 
Yet  me  they  charm,  whate'er  the  theme, 

My  Mary! 

Thy  silver  locks,  once  auburn  bright, 
Are  still  more  lovely  in  my  sight, 
Than  golden  beams  of  orient  light, 

My  Mary  I 

For  could  I  view  nor  them,  nor  thee, 
What  sight  worth  seeing  could  I  see  ? 
The  sun  would  rise  in  vain  for  me, 

My  Maryl 

Partakers  of  thy  sad  decline, 
Thy  hands  their  little  force  resign ; 
Yet  gently  pressed,  press  gently  mine, 

My  Mary! 

Such  feebleness  of  limbs  thou  prov'st, 
That  now  at  every  step  thou  mov'st 
Upheld  by  two ; — yet  still  thou  lov'st, 

My  Mary! 

And  still  to  love,  though  pressed  with  ill, 
In  wint'ry  age  to  feel  no  chill. 
"With  me  is  to  bo  lovely  still, 

My  Mary ! 


A     DISTRESSING      YEAR.  877 

But,  ah  1  by  constant  heed  I  know, 
How  oft  the  sadness  that  I  show, 
Transforms  thy  smiles  to  looks  of  woe, 

My  Maryl 

And  should  my  future  lot  be  cast 
With  much  resemblance  of  the  past, 
Thy  worn  out  heart  will  break  at  last, 

My  Mary ! 

The  year  1792,  after  his  return  from  his  visit  to 
Hayley,  was  indescribably  distressing  to  him. 
"In  vain/'  says  he,  "I  pray  to  be  delivered  from 
these  distressing  experiences  ;  they  are  only  mul- 
tiplied upon  me  the  more,  and  the  more  pointed. 
I  feel  myself,  in  short,  the  most  unpitied,  the  most 
unprotected,  and  the  most  unacknowledged  out- 
cast of  the  human  race."  Yet  there  was  one 
transitory  interval  of  happiness,  unspeakably  pre- 
cious, which  he  noticed  in  a  letter  to  Newton,  as 
"  a  manifestation  of  God's  presence  vouchsafed  to 
me  a  few  days  since  ;  transient,  indeed,  and  dimly 
seen  through  a  mist  of  many  fears  and  troubles, 
but  sufficient  to  convince  me,  at  least,  while  the 
Enemy's  power  is  a  little  restrained,  that  God  has 
not  cast  me  off  forever/' 

This  interval  is  described  more  particularly  in  a 
letter  to  Mr.  Teedon.  "  On  Saturday,  you  saw  me 
a  little  better  than  I  had  been  when  I  wrote  last ; 
but  the  night  following  brought  with  it  an  uncom- 
mon deluge  of  distress,  such  as  entirely  over- 
whelmed and  astonished  me.  My  horrors  were 
not   to   be   described.     But  on   Sunday,  while   I 


376  INTERVAL     OF     PRAYER. 

walked  with  Mrs.  Unwin  and  my  cousin  in  the 
orchard,  it  pleased  God  to  enable  me  once  more 
to  approach  Him  in  prayer,  and  I  prayed  silently 
for  every  tiling  that  lay  nearest  my  heart  with  a 
considerable  degree  of  liberty.  Nor  did  I  let  slip 
the  occasion  of  praying  for  you.  This  experience 
I  take  to  be  a  fulfillment  of  those  words,  '  The  ear 
of  the  Lord  is  open  to  them  that  fear  Him,  and  He 
will  hear  their  cry/  And  ever  since  I  was  favored 
with  that  spiritual  freedom  to  make  my  requests 
known  to  God,  I  have  enjoyed  some  quiet,  though 
not  uninterrupted  by  threatenings  of  the  Enemy." 
But  still  the  gloom  deepened.  Sometimes  he 
described  himself  even  to  Hayley,  as  "  hunted  by 
spiritual  hounds  in  the  night-season."  "  Prayer  I 
know  is  made  for  me,"  says  he  to  Mr.  Newton,  "and 
sometimes  with  great  enlargement  of  heart  by 
those  who  offer  it ;  and  in  this  circumstance  con- 
sists the  only  evidence  I  can  iind,  that  God  is  still 
favorably  mindful  of  me,  and  has  not  cast  me  off 
forever."  "As  to  myself,  I  have  always  the  same 
song  to  sing,  well  in  body,  but  sick  in  spirit,  sick, 
nigh  unto  death. 

Seasons  return,  but  not  to  me  returns 
God,  or  the  sweet  approach  of  heavenly  day, 
Or  sight  of  cheering  truth,  or  pardon  sealed, 
Or  joy,  or  hope,  or  Jesus'  face  divine, 
But  cloud  instead,  and  ever-during  dark . 

I  could  easily  set  my  complaint  to  Milton's  tune, 
and  accompany  him  through  the  whole  passage,  on 


INTERVAL     OF     PRAYER.  879 

the  subject  of  a  blindness  more  deplorable  than 
his  :  but  time  fails  me." 

Now  we  do  not  know  of  any  thing  more  tenderly 
affecting  in  Cowper's  whole  history,  nor  more  illus- 
trative of  a  grateful  and  affectionate  heart,  than 
the  interval  of  hope  and  prayer  above  recorded, 
and  the  use  which  Cowper  made  of  it.  Nor  did  I 
let  slip  the  occasion  of  praying  for  you.  Cowper 
thought  that  it  was  in  answer  to  Mr.  Teedon's 
earnest  interceding  prayers,  in  part  at  least,  that 
he  owed  that  celestial  freedom  (and  who  shall  pre- 
sume to  say  that  it  was  not  ?),  and  with  grateful 
love  he  asked  God's  blessing  on  his  humble  ben- 
efactor, even  amid  his  own  sufferings.  It  is  an 
exquisitely  beautiful  proof  how  truly  Cowper's 
spiritual  life  was  hid  with  Christ  in  God,  even 
when  he  thought  it  had  expired  in  darkness.  If 
all  of  Cowper's  correspondence  with  Mr.  Teedon 
had  been  the  means  of  only  this  incident,  and  its 
record,  we  should  rejoice  in  it  as  a  lovely  revela- 
tion of  Cowper's  character,  and  a  sweet  evidence 
of  his  communion  with  God,  even  then,  when  he 
thought  himself  cut  off  from  hope  and  Heaven. 
Yet  this  is  the  correspondence,  and  the  interchange 
of  prayer,  on  which  Sputhey  thought  fit  to  expend 
his  ridicule  ;  and  some  have  followed  in  the  same 
strain  !  Kightly  considered,  the  record  is  adapted 
to  fill  the  mind  only  with  admiration  and  with 
reverential  praise. 


CHAPTER   XXIX. 

FINAL  AND  FATAL  RECURRENCE  OF  COWPER'S  MALADY. — LADT 
HESKETH'S  AFFECTIONATE  CARE. — DEPARTURE  OF  COWPER  AND 
MRS.  UN  WIN  FROM  WESTON. — MRS.  UNWINS  DEATH. — COWPER'S 
LETTERS  AND  TERRORS. — THE  PROGRESS  OF  HIS  DESPAIR. — LAST 
LETTER  TO  NEWTON. — LAST  ORIGINAL  COMPOSITION. — THE  CAST- 
AWAY.— RELEASE   AND  DELIVERANCE. 

In  the  year  1794,  when  the  dreadful  malady  in- 
creased upon  Cowper  with  all  its  early  force,  his 
beloved  cousin,  Lady  Hesketh,  hastened  to  his 
care.  She  found  him  in  a  most  deplorable  condi- 
tion, and  the  description  of  the  circumstances  in 
her  letters  makes  us  rather  wonder  that  he  had 
not  been  sooner  and  more  completely  overwhelmed. 
Mrs.  Unwin  had  sunk,  after  her  last  attack  of  the 
palsy,  into  second  childhood.  Hayley  says  :  "The 
distress  of  heart  that  he  felt  in  beholding  the  cruel 
change  in  a  conrpanion  so  justly  dear  to  him,  con- 
spiring with  his  constitutional  melancholy,  was 
gradually  undermining  the  exquisite  faculties  of 
his  mind."  He  then  refers  to  Lady  Hesketh's 
cheerful  and  affectionate  kindness,  as  an  angel  of 
mercy,  u  who  now  devoted  herself  to  the  superin- 


LADY     HE8KETH'S     LETTER.  381 

tendence  of  a  house,  whose  two  interesting  inhab- 
itants were  rendered,  by  age  and  trouble,  almost 
incapable  of  attending  to  the  ordinary  offices  of  life. 
Those  only  who  have  lived  with  the  superannuated 
and  the  melancholy  can  properly  appreciate  the 
value  of  such  magnanimous  friendship,  or  perfectly 
apprehend  what  personal  sufferings  it  must  cost  a 
frame  of  compassionate  sensibility/' 

Lady  Hesketh,  after  noting  that  this  last  inter- 
val of  Cowper's  dreadful  dejection  began  in  the 
month  of  which  he  always  lived  in  terror,  that  of 
January,  says  that  she  found  him  on  her  arrival 
"  the  absolute  nurse  of  this  poor  lady  Mrs.  Unwin, 
who  can  not  move  out  of  her  chair  without  help, 
nor  walk  across  the  room  unless  supported  by  two 
people  ;  added  to  this,  her  voice  is  almost  wholly 
unintelligible,  and  as  their  house  was  repairing  all 
summer,  he  was  reduced,  poor  soul,  for  many 
months,  to  have  no  conversation  but  hers.  You 
must  imagine,  sir,  that  his  situation  was  terrible 
indeed  ;  and  the  more,  as  he  was  deprived,  by 
means  of  this  poor  lady,  of  all  his  wonted  exer- 
cises, both  mental  and  bodily,  as  she  did  not 
choose  he  should  leave  her  for  a  moment,  or  use  a 
pen,  or  a  book  except  when  he  read  to  her,  which 
is  an  employment  that  always,  I  know,  fatigues 
and  hurts  him,  and  which  therefore  my  arrival  re- 
lieved him  from.     I  thought  him,  on  the  whole, 


382  COW  P  E  It "'  f     REMOVAL. 

better  than  1  expected  he  would  have  been  in  such 
a  situation." 

In  another  letter,  Lady  Hesketh  described  the 
increasing  force  of  Cowper' s  malady,  and  the  ter- 
rors that  were  gathering  around  him.  "  He  is 
now  come  to  expect  daily,  and  even  hourly,  that 
he  shall  be  carried  away  ; — and  he  kept  in  his 
room  from  the  time  breakfast  was  over  till  four 
o'clock  on  Sunday  last,  in  spite  of  repeated  mes- 
sages from  Mrs.  Unwin,  because  he  was  afraid 
somebody  would  take  possession  of  his  bed,  and 
prevent  his  lying  down  on  it  any  more  !" 

In  July,  1795,  Cowper  and  Mrs.  Unwin  were 
both  removed  from  Weston  to  North  Tuddenham, 
under  the  affectionate  care  of  Mr.  Johnson,  and 
from  thence,  in  August,  to  Mundesley,  on  the  coast 
of  Norfolk.  While  at  Tuddenham,  Cowper  and 
Johnson  walked  over  together  to  the  village  of 
Mattishall,  on  a  visit  to  Mrs.  Bodham,  the  poet's 
cousin.  Cowper's  own  portrait  by  Abbot  was 
there,  taken  at  Weston  in  July,  1792,  when  Cow- 
per and  Mrs.  Unwin  were  on  the  eve  of  their  jour- 
ney to  Mr.  Hayley's,  at  Eartham.  He  was  then 
filled  with  trembling  apprehensions  on  her  account, 
and  beginning  to  be  harassed  with  a  thousand 
anxieties  about  the  pilgrimage  of  a  hundred  and 
twelve  miles  ;  hunted,  as  he  told  Hayley,  by  spir- 
itual hounds  in  the  night  season,  and  scared  with 
dreaming   visions   more   terrific   than   ever.     Yet 


PORTRAIT     BY     ABBOT.  383 

nothing  of  such  terror  was  imprinted  by  day  upon 
his  mild  and  pensive  countenance,  and  the  portrait 
by  Abbot  was  a  most  successful  effort.  Every 
creature  that  saw  it  was  astonished  at  the  resem- 
blance. Cowper  wrote  Hayley  that  Sam's  boy 
bowed  to  it,  and  Beau,  his  dog,  walked  up  to  it, 
wagging  his  tail  as  he  went,  aud  evidently  show- 
ing that  he  acknowledged  its  likeness  to  his 
master. 

Now  it  is  a  most  impressive  sign  of  the  acute- 
ness  of  Cowper's  mental  distress,  that,  notwith- 
standing the  sadness  and  dejection  of  his  state 
when  this  picture  was  taken,  it  was,  by  comparison 
with  his  present  darkness  and  despair,  a  season  of 
most  enviable  light  and  enjoyment.  When  his 
gaze  rested  on  the  portrait  at  Mrs.  Bodham's  house, 
he  clasped  his  hands,  according  to  Hayley's  ac- 
count, in  a  paroxysm  of  pain,  and  uttered  a  vehe- 
ment wish  that  his  present  sensations  might  be 
such  as  they  were  when  that  picture  was  painted  ! 

While  at  Mundesley,  Cowper  wrote  a  single  let- 
ter to  Mr.  Buchanan,  the  only  effort  he  had  been 
able  to  make,  even  in  epistolary  correspondence 
with  his  dearest  friends  (except  Lady  Hesketh)  for 
a  considerable  interval.  He  longed  to  hear  some- 
thing from  his  beloved  home  at  Weston,  and  closed 
his  letter  with  a  request,  most  tenderly  illustrating 
the  strength  of  his  home  affections  and  sensibili- 
ties.    "  Tell  me  if  my  poor  birds  are  living  !     I 


384  COWPER     AT     DUNHAM. 

never  see  the  herbs  I  used  to  give  them  without  a 
recollection  of  them,  and  sometimes  am  ready  to 
gather  them,  forgetting  that  I  am  not  at  home." 

In  1796,  the  two  invalids  resided  with  Mr. 
Johnson  at  Dunham  Lodge,  whence  in  September 
they  again  visited  the  sea-side  at  Mundesley,  but 
in  October  retired  to  Mr.  Johnson's  house  in  Dun- 
ham for  the  winter.  There  Mrs.  Unwin  died,  at 
the  age  of  seventy-two ;  but  the  extreme  de- 
pression of  spirits  produced  by  Cowper's  malady 
prevented  him  entirely  from  the  experience  of  that 
distress  and  anguish,  with  which  such  an  event 
would,  in  a  state  of  health  and  hope,  have  over- 
whelmed him.  From  the  day  of  her  death,  he 
never  mentioned  her  name,  and  seemed  not  even 
to  retain  the  remembrance  of  such  a  person  ever 
having  existed.  He  continued  under  the  same  de- 
pression through  the  year  1797,  but  was  persuaded 
by  the  affectionate  and  winning  entreaties  of  his 
young  kinsman  to  renew  his  labors  on  the  revisal 
of  his  Homer,  notwithstanding  the  pressure  of  his 
malady.  The  year  1798  passed  away  with  but 
little  variation  in  his  state,  and  by  the  8th  of 
March,  1799,  he  had  completed  the  revisal  of  the 
Odyssey,  and  the  next  morning  wrote  part  of  a 
new  preface.  But  this  was  his  last  continuous  in- 
tellectual effort,  although  he  wrote  one  or  two 
gloomy  letters,  and  one  more  original  poem. 

The  perusal  of  the  letters  (few,  and  despairing 


SUFFERING     UN  DESCRIBED.  385 

even  to  incoherence)  which  he  wrote  to  Lady  Hes- 
keth,  from  1795  to  1798,  fills  the  mind  with 
amazement  that  he  could  in  such  a  state  apply 
himself  to  any  intellectual  occupation.  We  also 
admire,  with  Hayley,  the  tender  and  ingenious  as- 
siduity of  Cowper's  young  kinsman,  under  whose 
care  these  melancholy  years  were  passed,  that 
could  engage  in  such  effort  a  being  so  hopelessly 
depressed.  "Even  a  stranger  may  consider  it  a 
strong  proof  of  his  tender  dexterity  in  soothing 
and  guiding  the  afflicted  poet,  that  he  was  able  to 
engage  him  steadily  to  pursue  and  finish  the  revisal 
and  correction  of  his  Homer  during  a  long  period 
of  bodily  and  mental  sufferings,  when  his  troubled 
mind  recoiled  from  all  intercourse  with  his  most 
intimate  friends,  and  labored  under  a  morbid  ab- 
horrence of  all  cheerful  exertion." 

These  letters  to  Lady  Hesketh  also  let  us  into 
the  knowledge  of  sufferings  which  Cowper  never 
described,  nor  attempted  to  recount  to  any  mortal 
in  the  former  attacks  of  his  distressing  malady. 
Those  attacks  had  been  so  sudden  and  so  over- 
whelming, that  he  could  not  put  pen  to  paper,  nor 
indeed  endure  any  communication,  even  with  his 
dearest  friends,  and  he  never  could  bring  himself 
to  any  detail  of  what  he  passed  through.  But 
this  final  attack  was  more  gradual,  and  was  not  so 
absolute,  did  not  so  entirely  plunge  him  beyond 
the  reach  of  any  sympathetic  voice  ;  and  the  few 
17 


386    LETTERS  TO   LADY  HESKETH. 

letters  he  undertook  to  Lady  Hesketh  really  do 
more  than  any  thing  else  toward  unvailing  the  en- 
tanglement of  infernal  delusions,  that  lay  like 
knotted  snakes  at  the  bottom  of  those  depths 
down  which  his  afflicted  reason  had  been  flung. 

The  first  of  these  sad  and  singular  records  was 
at  Mundesley,  where  by  the  sea-shore  Cowper  had 
loved  to  wander  in  his  earlier  days,  and  had  ex- 
pressed to  his  friends  the  sublime  impressions  pro- 
duced by  the  sight  of  the  ocean,  and  the  softly 
soothing  melancholy  into  which  the  sound  of  the 
breaking  billows  had  often  composed  his  thoughts. 
But  now  the  wildest  storm  upon  the  sea  was 
rapture  in  comparison  with  the  anguish  and  deso- 
lating apprehensions  that  filled  his  soul.  "  The 
most  forlorn  of  beings/'  says  he,  "  I  tread  a  shore 
under  the  burden  of  infinite  despair  that  I  once 
trod  all  cheerfulness  and  joy.  I  view  every  vessel 
that  approaches  the  coast  with  an  eye  of  jealousy 
and  fear,  lest  it  arrive  with  a  commission  to  seize 
me.  But  my  insensibility,  which  you  say  is  a  mys- 
tery to  you,  because  it  seems  incompatible  with 
such  fear,  has  the  effect  of  courage,  and  enables 
me  to  go  forth,  as  if  on  purpose  to  place  myself  in 
the  way  of  danger.  The  cliff  is  here  of  a  height 
that  it  is  terrible  to  look  down  from  ;  and  yester- 
day evening,  by  moonlight,  I  paused  sometimes 
within  a  foot  of  the  edge  of  it,  from  which  to  have 
fallen  would  probably  have  been  to  be  dashed  in 


LETTERS     TO     LADY     HESKETH.        387 

pieces.  But  though  to  have  been  dashed  in  pieces 
would  perhaps  have  been  best  for  me,  I  shrunk 
from  the  precipice,  and  am  waiting  to  be  dashed 
in  pieces  by  other  means.  At  two  miles'  distance 
on  the  coast  is  a  solitary  pillar  of  rock,  that  the 
crumbling  cliff  has  left  at  the  high-water  mark. 
I  have  visited  it  twice,  and  have  found  it  an  em- 
blem of  myself.  Torn  from  my  natural  connec- 
tions, I  stand  alone,  and  expect  the  storm  that 
shall  displace  me." 

"  I  have  no  expectation  that  I  shall  ever  see 
you  more,  though  Samuel  assures  me  that  I  shall 
visit  Weston  again,  and  that  you  will  meet  me 
there.  My  terrors,  when  I  left  it,  would  not  per- 
mit me  to  say — Farewell,  forever — which  now  I 
do  ;  wishing,  but  vainly  wishing,  to  see  you  yet 
once  more,  and  equally  wishing  that  I  could  now 
as  confidently,  and  as  warmly  as  once  I  could,  sub- 
scribe myself  affectionately  yours  ;  but  every  feel- 
ing that  could  warrant  the  doing  it,  has,  as  you 
too  well  know,  long  since  forsaken  the  bosom  of 

"  W.  C." 

This  was  written  in  August,  1795.  In  Septem- 
ber there  is  a  renewal  of  the  same  despairing 
monody,  and  an  evident  perplexity  of  mind  in 
vainly  striving  to  penetrate  the  mystery  of  his 
fate,  which  it  is  truly  affecting  to  witness.  "  I 
shall  never  see  Weston  more,     I  have  been  tossed 


388   LETTERS  TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

like  a  ball  into  a  far  country,  from  which  there  is 
no  rebound  for  me.  There,  indeed,  I  lived  a  life 
of  infinite  despair,  and  such  is  my  life  in  Norfolk. 
Such,  indeed,  it  would  be  in  any  given  spot  upon 
the  face  of  the  globe  ;  but  to  have  passed  the 
little  time  that  remained  to  me  there,  was  the  de- 
sire of  my  heart.  My  heart's  desire,  however,  has 
been  always  frustrated  in  every  thing  that  it  ever 
settled  on,  and  by  means  that  have  rendered  my 
disappointments  inevitable.  When  I  left  Weston, 
I  despaired  of  reaching  Norfolk,  and  now  that  I 
have  reached  Norfolk,  I  am  equally  hoj^eless  of 
ever  reaching  Weston  more.  What  a  lot  is  mine  ! 
Why  was  existence  given  to  a  creature  that  might 
possibly,  and  would  probably  become  wretched  in 
the  degree  that  I  have  been  so  ?  and  whom  mis- 
ery such  as  mine  was  almost  sure  to  overwhelm  in 
a  moment.  But  the  question  is  vain.  I  existed 
by  a  decree  from  which  there  was  no  appeal,  and 
on  terms  the  most  tremendous,  because  unknown 
to,  and  even  unsuspected  by  me  ;  difficult  to  be 
complied  with,  had  they  been  foreknown,  and  un- 
foreknown,  impracticable.  Of  this  truth,  I  have 
no  witness  but  my  own  experience  ;  a  witness, 
whose  testimony  will  not  be  admitted.  *  °  °  I 
remain  the  forlorn  and  miserable  being  I  was  when 
I  wrote  last." 

A  few  months  after  this  letter,  he  has  evidently, 
in  January,  1T96,  gone  down  a  few  fathoms  deeper 


DEFINITE     DELUSIONS.  389 

in  this  tremendous  gloom.  Yet  the  manner  in 
which  he  writes  concerning  these  experiences  has 
something  in  it,  notwithstanding  his  assertion  of 
the  certainty  of  his  dreadful  doom,  like  the  air  of 
one  who  half  suspects  himself  of  being  in  a  trance 
or  dream.  It  is  at  least  so  far  unreal,  that  he  per- 
plexes himself  about  it ;  and  every  advance  into  a 
deeper  darkness  makes  him  perceive  that  in  the 
preceding  darkness  there  was  light.  The  idea  that 
Lady  Hesketh  has  described  in  one  of  her  letters 
as  possessing  him,  that  he  was  to  be  suddenly  and 
bodily  carried  away  to  a  place  of  torment,  haunted 
him  more  and  more  :  it  was  but  the  more  definite 
converging  and  concentration  of  that  indefinable, 
anxious,  and  ominous  foreboding  of  the  future, 
under  which  he  had  so  often  described  himself  to 
Newton  and  other  dear  friends,  in  deeply  inter- 
esting letters,  as  borne  down  beneath  a  weight  of 
apprehension  that  almost  rendered  life  intolerable. 
"  I  seem  to  myself/'  he  said  to  Newton,  in  1792, 
"to  be  scrambling  always  in  the  dark,  among 
rocks  and  precipices,  without  a  guide,  but  with  an 
enemy  ever  at  my  heels  prepared  to  push  me 
headlong." 

So  long  as  the  delusion  was  general,  Cowper  was 
sane,  though  beneath  such  a  weight  of  suffering 
from  the  slow  nervous  and  mental  fever  of  his 
gloom.  But  in  proportion  as  the  delusion  took  a 
definite  form,  his  reason  gave  way  before  it,  though 


390  PROCESS     OF     INSANITY. 

his  senses  were  continued  to  him,  only,  as  he  im- 
agined, that  he  might  look  forward  to  the  worst. 
We  see  the  process  of  his  insanity  in  these  letters 
with  a  terrible  distinctness  ;  he  himself,  the  victim, 
describing  the  symptoms  and  experiences  step  after 
step,  till  he  can  write  no  more,  till  we  lose  sight 
of  him  in  the  darkness,  and  can  only  imagine, 
what  more  than  is  related,  his  sensitive  nature  may 
have  suffered,  before  the  Kedeemer,  who  was  al- 
ways with  him,  gave  him  an  eternal  deliverance. 
What  David,  amid  the  distraction  of  his  terrors, 
could  say,  was  not  less  true  of  Cowper,  even 
when  despair  was  too  absolute  to  admit  of  his 
believing  the  consolation,  "  When  my  spirit  was 
overwhelmed  within  me,  then  Thou  knewest  my 
path  !" 

He  says  to  Lady  Hesketh,  under  date  of  Jan- 
uary 22,  1796  :  "I  have  become  daily  and  hourly 
worse  ever  since  I  left  Mundesley  ;  then  I  had 
something  like  a  gleam  of  hope  allowed  me,  that 
possibly  my  life  might  be  granted  to  me  for  a  lon- 
ger time  than  I  had  been  used  to  suppose,  though 
only  on  the  dreadful  terms  of  accumulating  future 
misery  on  myself,  and  for  no  other  reason  ;  but 
even  that  hope  has  long  since  forsaken  me,  and  I 
now  consider  this  letter  as  the  warrant  of  my  own 
dreadful  end  ;  as  the  fulfillment  of  a  word  heard 
in  better  days,  at  least  six-and-twenty  years  ago. 
A  word   which   to  have  understood   at  the  time 


INVOLUTIONS     OF     DESPAIR.  391 

when  it  reached  me,  would  have  been,  at  least 
might  have  been,  a  happiness  indeed  to  me  ;  but 
my  cruel  destiny  denied  me  the  privilege  of  under- 
standing any  thing,  that,  in  the  horrible  moment 
came  winged  with  my  immediate  destruction,  might 
have  served  to  aid  me.  You  know  my  story  far 
better  than  I  am  able  to  relate  it.  Infinite  de- 
spair is  a  sad  prompter.  I  expect  that  in  six  days' 
time,  at  the  latest,  I  shall  no  longer  foresee,  but 
feel,  the  accomplishment  of  all  my  fears.  Oh,  lot 
of  unexampled  misery  incurred  in  a  moment ! 
Oh,  wretch  !  to  whom  death  and  life  are  alike  im- 
possible !  Most  miserable  at  present  in  this,  that 
being  thus  miserable,  I  have  my  senses  continued 
to  me,  only  that  I  may  look  forward  to  the  worst. 
It  is  certain,  at  least,  that  I  have  them  for  no  other 
purpose,  and  but  very  imperfectly,  even  for  this  ! 
My  thoughts  are  like  loose  and  dry  sand,  which 
the  closer  it  is  grasped,  slips  the  sooner  away.  Mr. 
Johnson  reads  to  me,  but  I  lose  every  other  sen- 
tence through  the  inevitable  wanderings  of  my 
mind,  and  experience,  as  I  have  these  two  years, 
the  same  shattered  mode  of  thinking  on  every  sub- 
ject, and  on  all  occasions.  If  I  seem  to  write  with 
more  connection,  it  is  only  because  the  gaps  do 
not  appear.  Adieu  ! — I  shall  not  be  here  to  re- 
ceive your  answer,  neither  shall  I  ever  see  you 
more.  Such  is  the  expectation  of  the  most  des- 
perate and  most  miserable  of  all  beings/' 


392  FIRST     AND     LAST     CRISIS. 

Now  if  the  readers  of  this  letter  will  turn  back 
to  the  description  given  of  Cowper's  state  in  his 
first  dread  conflict  bordering  on  insanity,  when  he 
wished  for  madness  as  a  relief  from  what  to  him 
seemed  the  worse  misery  of  the  dreaded  public 
examination,  for  which  he  knew  himself  to  be 
unfitted,  there  will  be  found  a  singular  analogy 
between  this  latter  crisis  of  Cowper's  malady  and 
the  first.  The  cycle  seemed  to  have  been  run, 
and  he  had  come  round  to  the  point  where  he 
started.  In  both  cases,  he  seemed  to  himself  to 
have  possession  of  his  senses,  only  that  he  might 
know  and  calculate  more  certainly  his  coming 
doom.  But  in  the  first  case,  there  was  no  awak- 
ened and  regenerated  conscience,  and  under  the 
pressure  of  his  misery  he  rushed  madly  to  the 
purpose  of  self-destruction,  bracing  himself  against 
whatever  he  might  meet  in  the  future  world.  Then, 
when  conscience  was  roused  and  goaded  into  fury 
by  the  frustrated  attempt  at  self-murder,  it  was 
her  scorpion  sting  that  inflicted  the  misery,  and 
produced  the  gloom,  in  which  he  was  buried  till 
the  face  of  Christ  was  revealed  to  him,  and  he  re- 
ceived grace  to  believe. 

But  into  the  last  crisis  and  conflict  the  element 
of  an  angry  conscience  did  not  once  enter,  nor  of 
a  rebellious  will.  He  lay  as  still  and  submissive 
as  a  weaned  child,  though  the  subject  at  the  same 
time  of  such  dreadful  despair,  and  of  such  dis- 


FIRST     AND     LAST     CRISIS.  393 

torting  and  maddening  delusions  about  the  purposes 
of  God  in  regard  to  him.  If  language  like  the 
outcries  of  Job  sometimes  gave  utterance  to  his 
passionate  grief,  and  he  was  almost  ready  to  curse 
his  day,  yet  he  never  questioned  God's  righteous- 
ness ;  nay,  at  times  the  very  madness  of  the  in- 
sanity was  in  this  imagination,  that  God's  truth 
and  righteousness  required  his  destruction.  It  is 
singularly  interesting  to  compare  the  two  ex- 
tremes ;  the  first,  when  he  entered  into  his  in- 
sanity from  a  careless  and  impenitent  heart,  and 
irreligious  life  ;  the  last,  when  from  a  life  of  faith, 
patience,  submission,  meekness,  prayer,  and  inces- 
sant effort  after  God,  and  with  a  conscience  beyond 
question  sprinkled  by  atoning  blood,  he  went  clown 
for  the  last  time  into  the  same  dreadful  chaps  and 
gloom,  unirradiated  by  one  gleam  of  hope,  yet  on 
the  very  verge  of  Heaven,  immediately  to  emerge 
into  its  eternal  light  and  glory  ! 

Under  date  of  February  19,  1T96,  Cowper  again 
wrote  to  Lady  Hesketh,  in  the  same  strain. 
"  Could  I  address  you  as  I  used  to  do,  with  what 
delight  should  I  begin  this  letter  !  But  that  de- 
light, and  every  other  sensation  of  the  kind,  has 
long  since  forsaken  me  forever.  •  *  •  All  my 
themes  of  misery  may  be  summed  in  one  word. 
He  who  made  me,  regrets  that  ever  He  did.  Many 
years  have  passed  since  I  learned  this  terrible  truth 

from  Himself,  and  the  interval  has  been  spent  ac- 
17* 


394  DREAD     u  F     DBIKBTIOK. 

cordiugly.  Adieu — I  shall  write  to  you  no  more. 
I  am  promised  months  of  continuance  here,  and 
should  be  somewhat  less  a  wretch  in  my  present 
feelings  could  I  credit  the  promise,  but  effectual 
care  is  taken  that  I  shall  not.  The  night  contra- 
dicts the  day,  and  I  go  down  the  torrent  of  time 
into  the  gulf  that  I  have  expected  to  plunge  into 
so  long.  A  few  hours  remain,  but  among  those 
few,  not  one  is  found,  a  part  of  which  I  shall  ever 
employ  in  writing  to  you  again.  Once  more, 
therefore,  adieu,  and  adieu  to  the  pen  forever.  I 
suppress  a  thousand  agonies,  to  add  only, 

"  W.  C." 

It  is  a  most  affecting  picture  which  is  given  at 
this  time  of  Cowper's  desolate  and  trembling  state, 
and  of  the  fearful  apprehensions  that  beset  him, 
by  his  kinsman  Mr.  Johnson,  when  he  tells  us  that 
"  the  tender  spirit  of  Cowper  clung  exceedingly  to 
those  about  him,  and  seemed  to  be  haunted  with 
a  continual  dread  that  they  would  leave  him  alone 
in  his  solitary  mansion.  Sunday,  therefore,  was  a 
day  of  more  than  ordinary  apprehension  to  him, 
as  the  furthest  of  his  kinsman's  churches  being 
fifteen  miles  from  the  Lodge,  he  was  necessarily 
absent  during  the  whole  of  the  Sabbath.  On  these 
occasions,  it  was  the  constant  practice  of  the  de- 
jected poet  to  listen  frequently  on  the  steps  of  the 
hall-door  for  the  barking  of  dogs  at  a  farm-house, 


LET  I  L  K     TO     LADY     HESKETH.        395 

which,  in  the  stillness  of  the  night,  though  at 
nearly  the  distance  of  two  miles,  invariably  an- 
nounced the  approach  of  his  companion/' 

Once  again,  in  1797,  Cowper  wrote  a  few  lines 
to  Lady  Hesketh.  "  To  you  once  more,"  says  he, 
"  and  too  well  I  know  why,  I  am  under  cruel  ne- 
cessity of  writing.  Every  line  that  I  have  ever 
sent  you,  I  have  believed  under  the  influence  of 
infinite  despair,  the  last  that  I  should  ever  send. 
This  I  know  to  be  so.  Whatever  be  your  condi- 
tion, either  now  or  hereafter,  it  is  heavenly  com- 
pared with  mine,  even  at  this  moment.  It  is 
unnecessary  to  add  that  this  comes  from  the  most 
miserable  of  beings,  whom  a  terrible  minute  made 
such."  The  post-mark  of  this  letter  was  May  15, 
1797,  but  there  was  neither  date  nor  signature,  a 
picture  of  the  painful  confusion,  and  almost  chaos, 
of  the  poet's  suffering  mind.  Indeed,  these  letters 
disclose,  by  glimpses,  the  distraction  and  misery  of 
the  writer,  just  as  the  flashes  of  lightning  over  the 
sea,  in  a  dark  and  stormy  night,  might  reveal  the 
form  of  a  dismasted  ship  driving  wrecked  before 
the  tempest. 

There  were  three  similar  letters  in  1798,  in  the 
second  of  which,  speaking  of  the  universal  blank 
that  even  nature  had  become  to  him,  though  once 
he  was  susceptible  of  so  much  pleasure  from  the 
delightful  scenes  Lady  Hesketh  had  been  describ- 
ing, he   says,  "  My  state  of  mind  is   a  medium 


396  DOC  I  li  1  N  1     9V     X  E  C  E  B  S  I  T  Y . 

through  which  the  beauties  of  Paradise  itself 
could  not  be  communicated  with  any  effect  but  a 
painful  one." 

In  the  third,  and  last  he  ever  wrote  to  her,  in 
December,  1798,  he  was  in  full  possession  of  his 
faculties,  except  for  the  weight  of  the  mountain 
of  his  despair,  yet  wrote  under  the  idea  that  all 
his  volitions  and  actions  were  the  result  of  an  in- 
evitable and  eternal  necessity.  He  described  him- 
self as  giving  all  his  miserable  days,  and  no  small 
portion  of  his  nights  also,  to  the  revisal  of  his 
Homer  ;  a  hopeless  employment,  he  said,  on  every 
account,  both  because  he  himself  was  hopeless 
wmile  engaged  in  it,  and  because,  with  all  his 
labor,  it  was  impossible  to  do  justice  to  the  an- 
tique original  in  a  modern  language.  "  That 
under  such  disabling  circumstances,  and  in  despair 
both  of  myself  and  of  my  work,  I  should  yet  at- 
tend to  it,  and  even  feel  something  like  a  wish  to 
improve  it,  would  be  unintelligible  to  me,  if  I  did 
not  know  that  my  volitions,  and  consequently  my 
actions,  are  under  a  perpetual,  irresistible  influ- 
ence. Whatever  they  were  in  the  earlier  part  of 
my  life,  that  such  they  are  now,  is  with  me  a  mat- 
ter of  every  day's  experience.  This  doctrine  I 
once  denied,  and  even  now  assert  the  truth  of  it  re- 
specting myself  only.  There  can  he  no  'peace 
where  there  is  no  freedom  ;  and  he  is  a  wretch  in- 
deed who  is  a  necessitarian  by  experience." 


S  L  A  V  E  B  Y  .  397 

There  can  be  no  peace  where  there  is  no  free- 
dom !  How  did  this  truth  spring  up  from  the 
deepest  depth  in  Cowper's  heart  !  How  it  re- 
minds us,  wrung  as  its  expression  here  is  from  his 
own  anguish,  of  those  exquisitely  beautiful  and 
noble  sentiments,  manifestly  the  sincerest  utter- 
ances of  his  soul,  with  which,  in  "  The  Task,"  he 
has  denounced  the  curse  of  slavery,  and  celebrated 
freedom  as  man's  birthright  from  his  Creator  ! 


"Whose  freedom  is  by  sufferance,  and  at  will 
Of  a  superior,  he  is  never  free. 
"Who  lives,  and  is  not  weary  of  a  life 
Exposed  to  manacles,  deserves  them  well, 
The  State  that  strives  for  liberty,  though  foiled, 
And  forced  to  abandon  what  she  bravely  sought, 
Deserves,  at  least,  applause  for  her  attempt, 
And  pity  for  her  loss.    But  that 's  a  cause 
Not  often  unsuccessful.     Power  usurped 
Is  weakness  when  opposed,  concious  of  wrong, 
'Tis  pusillanimous,  and  prone  to  flight ; 
But  slaves  that  once  conceive  the  glowing  thought 
Of  freedom,  in  that  hope  itself  possess 
All  that  the  contest  calls  for ;  spirit,  strength, 
The  scorn  of  danger,  and  united  hearts, 
The  surest  presage  of  the  good  they  seek. 
'Tis  liberty  alone  that  gives  the  flower 
Of  fleeting  life  its  luster  and  perfume ; 
And  we  are  weeds  without  it.     All  constraint, 
Except  what  wisdom  lays  on  evil  men, 
Is  evil :  hurts  the  faculties,  impedes 
Their  progress  in  the  road  of  science ;  blinds 
The  eyesight  of  discovery ;  and  begets 
In  those  that  suffer  it,  a  sordid  mind, 
Bestial,  a  meager  intellect,  unfit 
To  be  the  tenant  of  man's  noble  form. 


39«  L  A  8  T     L  XT  T  11     To     N  E  W  I  0  1 . 

The  coincidences  between  Cowper's  poetry  and 
his  letters  are  interesting  and  instructive  in  the 
extreme  ;  and  the  more  so,  because  he  never 
thought  of  them,  and  never  repeated  himself,  but 
always  wrote  what  was  the  original  creation  of  a 
present  experience. 

The  last  letter  of  his  life  wras  written  to  the 
dearest  Christian  friend  he  had  ever  known,  John 
Newton,  thanking  him  for  his  own  last  letter,  and 
for  a  book  which  Newton  had  sent  him,  and  which 
Mr.  Johnson  had  just  read  to  him.  How  sad  and 
dark  were  his  last  words  to  that  dear  friend,  whom 
he  was  just  on  the  eve  of  meeting  and  welcoming 
in  the  rapture  and  glory  of  a  world  of  eternal  hap- 
piness and  light  !  It  was  April  11,  1799,  and  he 
says,  "  If  the  book  afforded  me  any  amusement,  or 
suggested  to  me  any  reflections,  they  were  only 
such  as  served  to  embitter,  if  possible,  still  more 
the  present  moment  by  a  sad  retrospect  of  those 
days  when  I  thought  myself  secure  of  an  eternity 
to  be  spent  with  the  spirits  of  such  men  as  he 
whose  life  afforded  the  subject  of  it.  But  I  was 
little  aware  of  what  I  had  to  expect,  and  that  a 
storm  was  at  hand,  which  in  one  terrible  moment 
would  darken,  and  in  another  still  more  terrible 
blot  out  that  prospect  forever.  Adieu,  dear  sir, 
whom  in  those  days  I  called  dear  friend  with  feel- 
ings that  justified  the  appellation." 

At  this  time,  Cowper  had  just  finished  the  final 


LAST     ORIGINAL     POEM.  8^9 

revisal  of  his  Horner,  and  could  converse  in  regard 
to  other  literary  undertakings.,  for  the  vigor  of  his 
mind  was  unabated,  nor  had  the  power  of  his  im- 
agination, nor  the  tenderness  and  sensibility  of  his 
affections,  been  diminished  by  his  gloom.  His 
affectionate  kinsman  proposed  to  him  to  continue 
his  poem  on  "  The  Four  Ages,"  and  accordingly  he 
altered  and  added  a  few  lines,  but  remarked  "  that 
it  was  too  great  a  work  for  him  to  attempt  in  his 
present  situation."  The  next  day  he  wrote  in 
Latin  verse  the  poem  entitled  "  The  Ice  Islands," 
and  a  few  days  afterward  translated  it  into  English. 
The  day  after  that  translation,  the  20th  of  March, 
he  wrote  the  last  original  poem  he  ever  composed, 
those  most  affecting  stanzas,  entitled  "  The  Cast- 
away," founded  upon  an  occurrence  related  in 
Anson's  Voyages,  which  he  had  remembered  for 
many  years. 


Obscurest  night  involved  the  sky, 
Th'  Atlantic  billows  roared, 

When  such  a  destined  wretch  as  I, 
Wash'd  headlong  from  on  board, 

Of  friends,  of  hope,  of  all  bereft, 

His  floating  home  forever  left. 

No  braver  chief  could  Albion  boast, 
Than  he  with  whom  he  went, 

Nor  ever  ship  left  Albion's  coast, 
With  warmer  wishes  sent. 

He  loved  them  both,  but  both  in  vain, 

Nor  him  beheld,  nor  her  again. 


4.0U  I  H  |      0  A  S  T  A  WAY. 

Not  long  beneath  the  whelming  brine, 
Expert  to  swim,  he  lay ; 

Nor  soon  he  felt  his  strength  decline, 
Or  courage  die  away ; 

But  waged  with  death  a  lasting  strife, 

Supported  by  despair  of  life. 

He  shouted :  nor  his  friends  had  failed 
To  check  the  vessel's  course, 

But  so  the  furious  blast  prevailed, 
That,  pitiless  perforce, 

They  left  their  outcast  mate  behind, 

And  scudded  still  before  the  wind. 

Some  succor  yet  they  could  afford ; 

And,  such  as  storms  allow, 
The  cask,  the  coop,  the  floated  cord, 

Delayed  not  to  bestow ; 
But  he  (they  knew)  not  ship,  nor  shore, 
Whate'er  they  gave,  should  visit  more. 

Nor,  cruel  as  it  seemed,  could  he 
Their  haste  himself  condemn, 

Aware  that  flight,  in  such  a  sea 
Alone  could  rescue  them ; 

Yet  bitter  felt  it  stiU  to  die, 

Deserted,  and  his  friends  so  nigh. 

He  long  survives,  who  lives  an  hour 

In  ocean,  self-upheld ; 
And  so  long  he,  with  unspent  power, 

His  destiny  repelled. 
And  ever,  as  the  minutes  flew, 
Entreated  help,  or  cried — adieu. 

At  length,  his  transient  respite  passed, 
His  comrades,  who  before 

Had  heard  his  voice  in  every  blast, 
Could  catch  the  sound  no  more. 

For  them,  by  toil  subdued,  he  drank 

The  stifling  wave,  and  then  he  sank. 


a  A  Y  '*  S     FABLES.  401 

No  poet  wept  him,  but  the  page 

Of  narrative  sincere, 
That  tells  his  name,  his  worth,  his  age, 

Is  wet  with  Anson's  tear. 
And  tears  by  bards  or  heroes  shed, 
Alike  immortalize  the  dead. 

I  therefore  purpose  not,  or  dream, 

Descanting  on  his  fate, 
To  give  the  melancholy  theme 

A  more  enduring  date  ; 
But  misery  still  delights  to  trace 
Its  semblance  in  another's  case. 

No  voice  Divine  the  storm  allayed, 

No  light  propitious  shone  ; 
"When,  snatched  from  all  effectual  air, 

TVe  perished,  each  alone : 
But  I  beneath  a  rougher  sea, 
And  whelmed  in  deeper  gulfs  than  he. 

This  was  his  last  poem,  and  his  last  attempt  at 
poetry,  though,  as  late  as  January,  1800,  he  em- 
ployed himself  in  translating  some  of  Gay's  Fa- 
bles into  Latin  verse.  The  regret  has  often  been 
expressed,  as  it  was  in  his  life-time,  that  his  great 
powers  should  not  have  given  to  some  other  original 
poetical  undertaking  rather  than  employed  for  so 
many  years  in  the  translation  of  Homer.  But  he 
had  accomplished  enough  for  one  poet  in  the  com- 
position of  "  The  Task/'  What  God  sees  fit  to 
do  in  the  discipline  of  the  human  mind  by  poetry, 
He  evidently  does  sparingly.  And,  indeed,  if  the 
quantity  were  greater,  the  value  would  be  less,  and 
the  effect  would  be  diminished.  It  is  like  the 
precious  metals  for  the  coin  of  society  ;  abundance 


402         cuwper's    diliyiba  n  c  e . 

would  destroy  their  use.  So  Divine  Providence  in 
even*  age  limits  and  regulates  the  supply  of  poets 
and  of  poetry  in  the  world.  Another  poem  like 
the  last  might  have  been  produced,  but  the  effect 
of  both  together  would  perhaps  not  have  been  so 
great  as  that  of  Cowpers  volume  alone. 

When  Cowper  wrote  "  The  Castaway,"  he  was 
in  reality,  as  to  time,  just  on  the  verge  of  Heaven  ; 
the  day  of  his  deliverance  was  drawing  nigh. 
Nevertheless,  up  to  the  last  hour  his  mind  re- 
mained in  deep,  unbroken  gloom.  In  March,  the 
physician  in  Norwich  being  requested  to  see  him, 
asked  him  how  he  felt.  "Feel!"  said  Cowper, 
"  I  feel  unutterable  despair  !"  The  19th  of  April, 
Mr.  Johnson,  "  apprehending  that  his  death  was 
near,  adverted  to  the  affliction  both  of  body  and 
mind  which  Cowper  was  enduring,  and  ventured  to 
speak  of  his  approaching  dissolution  as  the  signal 
of  his  deliverance.  After  a  pause  of  a  few  mo- 
ments, less  interrupted  by  the  objections  of  his 
desponding  relative  than  he  had  dared  to  hope,  he 
proceeded  to  an  observation  more  consolatory  still  ; 
namely,  that  in  the  world  to  which  he  was  hasten- 
ing, a  merciful  Redeemer  had  prepared  inexpi 
ble  happiness  for  all  His  children,  and  therefore  for 
him.  To  the  first  part  of  this  sentence,  Cowper 
had  listened  with  composure  ;  but  the  concluding 
words  were  no  sooner  uttered,  than  his  passionately 
expressed  entreaties  that  his  companion  would  de- 


ANGELIC     LIGHT.  403 

sist  from  any  further  observations  of  a  similar 
kind,  clearly  proved  that,  though  it  was  on  the  eve 
of  being  invested  with  angelic  light,  the  darkness 
of  delusion  still  vailed  his  spirit/'  He  died  as 
calmly  as  a  sleeping  infant,  in  the  afternoon  of  the 
25th  of  April,  1800,  and  from  that  moment  the  ex- 
pression into  which  the  countenance  settled  was 
observed  by  his  loving  relative  "to  be  that  of 
calmness  and  composure,  mingled,  as  it  were,  with 
holy  surprise  ;"  and  he  regarded  this  as  an  index 
of  the  last  thoughts  and  enjoyments  of  his  soul, 
in  its  gradual  escape  from  the  depths  of  that  in- 
scrutable despair  in  which  it  had  been  so  long 
shrouded. 


CHAPTER   XXX. 

MISSIONARY  SPEECH  BY  DR.  DUFF. — SPHERE  OF  COWPER'S  USEFUL- 
NESS.— COOPER'S  OWN  REVIEW  OF  HIS  EARLY  LIFE. — PROVIDENCE 
AND  GRACE  IN  IT. — COWPER'S  ADMIRABLE  CRITICISMS. — HYMNS 
FOR   THE   PARISH    CLERK. — ADVICE   IN   REGARD   TO   STUDY. 

It  is  a  sweet  thing  to  behold  how  the  words  of 
poets  passed  into  the  skies  become  the  resort  of 
Christian  hearts  for  the  utterance  of  their  deepest 
and  holiest  feelings.  This  is  the  case,  above  all 
others,  with  the  poetry  of  Watts  and  Cowper. 
How  many  souls  have  they  been  permitted  to  ac- 
company, and  even  to  j^ersuade  and  allure  to  the 
mercy-seat,  and  to  interpret  the  breathings  of  how 
many  hearts  in  their  nearest  approaches  to  God  on 
earth,  and  on  the  solemn  verge  of  death,  and  al- 
most in  the  very  entrance  to  Heaven  !  And  yet, 
through  how  much  suffering,  in  the  instance  of 
Cowper's  genius,  was  this  great  privilege  accorded  ! 
And  with  what  ineffable  delight  must  such  beati- 
fled  minds  look  down  from  amid  their  part  in  the 
anthems  of  Heaven,  to  behold  assemblages  of 
saints  on  earth  adoring  and  praising  GJ-od  through 


MISSIONARY    CLIMAX.  405 

the  instrumentality  of  their  compositions  !  We 
thought  of  Cowper,  and  his  earthly  gloom  and 
desolation,  and  his  rapture  in  the  world  of  light 
and  glory,  on  occasion  of  one  of  those  vast  and 
crowded  gatherings,  when  the  missionary  Dr.  Duff 
poured  forth  the  fervor  of  his  Christian  eloquence. 
At  the  close  of  one  of  his  last  speeches  in  America, 
on  occasion  of  the  meeting  of  the  American  Board 
of  Commissioners  for  Foreign  Missions,  his  mind 
had  been  wrought  up  to  such  a  point  of  excited 
feeling,  and  climacteric  agglomeration  of  thought, 
sentences  and  images,  that  by  the  very  law  of 
evolution  he  was  forced  to  go  higher  and  higher 
with  each  successive  sentence,  till  an  almost  pain- 
ful feeling  of  wonder  and  anxiety  was  produced  in 
almost  every  mind — how  can  he  end  ?  how  can  he 
close  ?  how  descend  from  such  an  elevation,  or 
how  continue  his  soaring  ?  There  was  but  one 
page  in  one  poem  in  the  world  that  could  have 
given  him  the  means,  and  that  was  in  the  sixth 
book  of  "  The  Task  '"  and  it  was  as  if  Cowper 
himself,  as  a  guardian  angel,  had  borne  him  on  his 
wings,  and  lighted  with  him  from  his  transcendent 
flight.  He  closed  his  thrilling  address,  and  its  un- 
rivaled climax,  with  those  magnificent  lines, 

One  song  employs  all  nations,  and  all  cry, 
Worthy  the  Lamb,  for  He  was  slain  for  us  ! 
The  dwellers  in  the  vales  and  in  the  rocks 
Shout  to  each  other,  and  the  mountain-tops 


406  COWTEll's      MINISTRY. 

From  distant  mountains  catch  the  flying  joy, 
Till,  nation  after  nation  taught  the  strain, 
Earth  rolls  the  rapturous  Ilosanna  round  I 

If  our  recollection  does  not  mislead  us,  we  believe 
the  speaker  repeated  the  last  line  three  times, 
swinging  his  long  arm  at  each  exulting  repetition, 
with  an  accompanying  sweep  of  grandeur, 


Earth  rolls  the  rapturous  Hosanna  round ! 
Earth  rolls  the  rapturous  Hosanna  round  ! 
Earth  rolls  the  rapturous  Hosanna  round  ! 

The  effect  was  sublime,  overwhelming,  and  it 
seemed  as  if  the  vast  audience  would  break  forth 
into  the  same  shout  simultaneously  ! 

At  one  time,  Cowper  was  seriously  questioning 
whether  he  ought  not  to  devote  himself  to  the 
ministry  of  the  Gospel ;  but  the  case  was  soon 
made  perfectly  plain  to  his  own  mind,  as  indeed  it 
was  afterward  to  all.  His  sphere  of  labor  and  of 
usefulness  had  been  determined  by  Divine  Provi- 
dence, and  the  ruin  of  all  his  own  schemes  was  just 
a  necessary  part  of  that  discipline  by  which  God 
would  prepare  him  for  the  dominion  he  was  to 
hold  by  his  genius  and  piety  in  men's  minds  and 
affections.  It  was  a  much  wider  dominion  than  he 
ever  could  have  gained  in  sacred  orders  ;  a  domin- 
ion over  the  Church  which  indeed  he  could  never 
have  obtained  as  a  minister  in  and  of  the  Church. 
He  knew  this,  and  sometimes  playfully  intimated 


C  O  W  P  E  E  *  8     ADVICE.  407 

as  much  to  Lady  Hesketh,  as  when  he  heard  from 
her  that  a  certain  duchess  was  interesting  herself 
in  his  behalf.     "  Who  in  the  world,"  exclaims  he, 

"  set  the  duchess  of a-going  ?      But  if  all 

the  Duchesses  in  the  world  were  spinning,  like  so 
many  whirligigs,  for  my  benefit,  I  would  not  stop 
them.  It  is  a  noble  thing  to  be  a  poet,  it  makes 
all  the  world  so  lively.  I  might  have  preached 
more  sermons  than  even  Tillotson  did,  and  better, 
and  the  world  would  have  been  still  fast  asleep  ; 
but  a  volume  of  verse  is  a  fiddle  that  puts  the 
universe  in  motion." 

Cowper  sometimes  thought  it  was  his  over-sensi- 
tive shyness  that  ruined  him,  in  preventing  him 
from  succeeding  at  the  bar.  He  sympathized 
much  with  his  young  friends  Johnson  and  Kose, 
when  he  saw  in  them  something  of  the  same  awk- 
ward timidity.  The  advice  he  gave  them  both 
was  excellent,  especially  to  Kose.  "  I  pitied  you," 
says  he,  "for  the  fears  which  deprived  you  of  your 
uncle's  company,  and  the  more  for  having  suffered 
so  much  by  those  fears  myself.  Fight  against  that 
vicious  fear,  for  such  it  is,  as  strenuously  as  you 
can.  It  is  the  worst  enemy  that  can  attack  a  man 
destined  to  the  forum  ; — it  ruined  me.  To  associ- 
ate as  much  as  possible  with  the  most  respectable 
company  for  good  sense  and  good  breeding,  is,  I 
believe,  the  only,  at  least  I  am  sure  it  is  the  best, 
remedy.     The  society  of  men  of  pleasure  will  not 


408  I  II  B     8  0  WING-TIME. 

cure  it,  but  rather  leaves  us  more  exposed  to  its 
influence  in  company  of  better  persons." 

The  ruin  of  Cowper  as  a  lawyer,  politician,  and 
man  of  the  world,  was  the  making  of  him  as.  a 
poet  and  a  useful  being,  but  only  by  the  interven- 
tion of  Divine  grace.  Without  this,  he  would  have 
been  ruined  indeed.  And  in  a  beautiful  letter  he 
commends  the  same  dear  young  friend  for  his  dili- 
gence in  the  study  of  the  law.  "  You  do  well,  my 
dear  sir,  to  improve  your  opportunity  ;  to  speak  in 
the  rural  phrase,  this  is  your  sowing-time,  and  the 
sheaves  you  look  for  can  never  be  yours,  unless  you 
make  that  use  of  it.  The  color  of  our  whole  life 
is  generally  such  as  the  three  or  four  first  years  in 
which  we  are  our  own  masters,  make  it.  Then  it 
is  that  we  may  be  said  to  shape  our  own  destiny, 
and  to  treasure  up  for  ourselves  a  series  of  future 
successes  or  disappointments.  Had  I  employed 
my  time  as  wisely  as  you,  in  a  situation  very  sim- 
ilar to  yours,  I  had  never  been  a  poet  perhaps,  but 
I  might  by  this  time  have  acquired  a  character  of 
more  importance  in  society,  and  a  situation  in 
which  my  friends  would  have  been  better  pleased 
to  see  me.  But  three  years  misspent  in  an  at- 
torney's office  were  almost  of  course  followed  by 
several  more,  equally  misspent  in  the  Temple,  and 
the  consequence  has  been,  as  the  Italian  epitaph 
says,  Sto  qui.  The  only  use  I  can  make  of  my- 
self now,  at  least  the  best,  is  to  serve  in  terror  em 


cowper's    'RITicism.  409 

to  others,  when  occasion  may  happen  to  offer,  that 
they  may  escape  (so  far  as  my  admonitions  can 
have  any  weight  with  them)  my  folly  and  my  fate. 
When  yon  feel  yourself  tempted  to  relax  a  little 
of  the  strictness  of  your  present  discipline,  and  to 
indulge  in  amusement  incompatible  with  your 
future  interests,  think  on  your  friend  at  Weston.'' 

Cowper's  letters  contain  some  of  the  finest 
passages  ol  instructive  criticism  in  the  English 
language.  Of  this  character  are  his  remarks  on 
occasion  of  one  of  his  own  poetical  lines  having 
been  tampered  with  to  make  it  smoother. 

"I   know,"  says  he,  " that   the  ears  of  modern 

verse-writers  are  delicate  to  an  excess,  and  their 

readers  are  troubled  with  the  same  squeamishness 

as  themselves,  so  that,  if  a  line  do  not  run  as  smooth 

as  quicksilver,  they  are  offended.     A  critic  of  the 

present  day  serves  a  poem  as  a  cook  serves  a  dead 

turkey,  when  she  fastens  the  legs  of  it  to  a  post, 

and   draws  out   all  the  sinews.     For  this  we  may 

thank  Pope  ;   but  unless  we  could  imitate  him  in 

the  eluson-.  ss  and   compactness  of  his  expression, 

as  well  as   in  the  smoothness  of  his  numbers,  we 

had   better  drop   the   imitation,  which   serves   no 

other  purpose  than  to  emasculate  and  weaken  all 

we  write.     Give  me   a   manly,  rough  line,  with  a 

deal  of  meaning  in  it,  rather  than  a  whole  poem 

full  of  musical  periods,  that  have  nothing  but  their 

oilv  smoothness  to  recommend  them." 
IS 


410     GOOD     SENSE     A  X  D     SIMPLICITY. 

"  There  is  a  roughness  on  a  plum  which  nobody 
that  understands  fruit  would  rub  off,  though  the 
plum  would  be  much  more  polished  without  it.  I 
wish  you  to  guard  me  from  all  such  meddling  ;  as- 
suring you  that  I  always  write  as  smoothly  as  I 
can,  but  that  I  never  did,  never  will,  sacrifice  the 
spirit  or  sense  of  a  passage  to  the  sound  of  it." 

The  power  and  charm  of  Cowper's  good  sense 
and  simplicity,  as  well  as  tenderness  of  feeling,  in 
his  poetry,  were  acknowledged  in  a  very  unexpected 
way,  when  the  clerk  of  All-Saints'  parish  in  North- 
hampton came  to  him  with  a  renewed  application 
for  the  annual  mortuary  stanzas  to  be  printed  with 
his  Bill  of  Mortality  at  Christmas.  Gowper  told 
him  there  must  be  plenty  of  poets  at  Northhamp- 
ton, and  referred  him  in  particular  to  his  name- 
sake Mr.  Cox,  the  statuary,  as  a  successful  wooer 
of  the  Muse.  The  clerk  made  answer  that  all 
this  was  very  true,  and  he  had  already  borrowed 
help  from  him.  "  But,  alas  !  sir,  Mr.  Cox  is  a 
gentleman  of  much  reading,  and  the  people  of  our 
town  do  not  well  understand  him.  He  has  written 
for  me,  but  nine  in  ten  of  us  were  stone-blind  to 
his  meaning."  Cowper  felt  all  the  force  of  this 
equivocal  compliment ;  his  mortified  vanity  came 
near  refusing,  if  the  merit  of  his  own  verses  was 
considered  as  insured  by  the  smallness  of  his  read- 
ing. But  rinding  that  the  poor  clerk  had  walked 
over  to  Weston  on  purpose  to  implore  his  assist- 


MORTUARY     VERSES.  411 

ance,  and  was  in  considerable  distress,  he  good- 
naturedly  consented,  and  supplied  the  clerk's  Mor- 
tality Bill  with  his  beautiful  verses  for  several 
years  ;  a  fig  for  the  poets,  said  he,  who  write 
epitaphs  upon  individuals  t  I  have  written  one 
that  serves  two  hundred  persons.  Among  these 
productions  is  to  be  found  the  beautiful  dirge,  be- 
ginning, 

Thankless  for  favors  from  on  high, 

Man  thinks  he  fades  too  soon; 
Though  'tis  his  privilege  to  die, 

"Would  he  improve  the  boon. 

The  last  verse  in  this  poem  is  truly  sublime  ;  and 
it  is  one  of  the  most  perfect  stanzas,  taking  into 
consideration  the  greatness  and  compactness  of 
thought  expressed,  and  the  dignity  and  simplicity 
of  the  expression,  that  even  Cowper  ever  wote. 

'Tis  judgment  shakes  him :  there 's  the  fear, 

That  prompts  the  wish  to  stay ; 
He  has  incurred  a  long  arrear, 
And  must  despair  to  pay. 

Pay  ?  follow  Christ,  and  all  is  paid; 

His  death  your  peace  insures ; 
Think  on  the  grave  where  He  was  laid, 

And  calm  descend  to  yours. 

Another  of  these  pieces  is  that  beginning, 

0  most  delightful  hour  by  man 

Experienced  here  below, 
The  hour  that  terminates  his  span, 

His  folly  and  his  woe ! 


412  CRITICAL     APOTHEQMB. 

That  also  beginning, 

He  lives,  who  lives  to  God  alone, 

And  all  are  dead  beside ; 
For  other  source  than  God  is  none, 

"Whence  life  can  be  supplied. 

This  last  was  composed  in  1793  ;  and  it  is  some- 
what strange  that  the  critics  who  deemed  it  so 
hazardous  to  the  verge  of  insanity  for  Cowper  to 
have  been  engaged  by  Newton  in  composing  the 
Olney  Hymns,  should  not  have  fallen  upon  poor 
John  Cox,  the  parish  clerk  of  Northhampton,  for 
the  pertinacity  with  which  he-  enlisted  the  genius 
and  the  heart  of  the  poet  again  in  so  dangerous 
an  undertaking. 

One  of  Cowper's  apothegms  to  his  young  friend 
and  kinsman  Mr.  Johnson,  deserves  quoting,  be- 
cause, although  simplicity  and  perspicuity  were  in 
Cowper  the  intuition  and  native  element  of  his 
genius,  yet  he  also  made  it  a  principle,  both  of 
intellect  and  conscience.  "Remember,"  said  he, 
"  that  in  writing,  perspicuity  is  always  more  than 
half  the  battle  ;  the  want  of  it  is  the  ruin  of  more 
than  half  the  poetry  that  is  published.  A  mean- 
ing that  does  not  stare  you  in  the  face,  is  as  bad 
as  no  meaning,  because  nobody  will  take  the  pains 
to  poke  for  it." 

We  may  add  here  the  admirable  advice  given 
by  Cowper  in  another  letter  to   the   same  young 


cowper's    theology.  413 

friend,  in  regard  to  his  course  of  study.  "  Life  is 
too  short  to  afford  time  even  for  serious  trifles. 
Pursue  what  you  know  to  be  attainable,  make 
truth  your  object,  and  your  studies  will  make  you 
a  wise  man.  /Let  your  divinity,  if  I  may  advise, 
be  the  divinity  of  the  glorious  Reformation  :  I 
mean  in  contradiction  to  Arminianism,  and  all  the 
isms  that  ever  were  broached  in  this  world  of 
error  and  ignorance.  The  divinity  of  the  Reforma- 
tion is  called  Calvinism,  but  injuriously.  It  has 
been  that  of  the  Church  of  Christ  in  all  ages.  It 
is  the  divinity  of  St.  Paul,  and  of  St.  Paul's  Mas- 
ter, who  met  him  in  his  way  to  Damascus." 

Cowper's  own  religious  views,  as  well  as  New- 
ton's, were  what  are  called  Calvinistic  ;  but  he 
meant  that  any  nomenclature  except  that  of 
Christ,  given  to  the  divinity  of  the  Reformation, 
was  injurious.  That  divinity  rose  above  all  names, 
went  back  of  all  Churches,  and  was  taken  imme- 
diately from  the  Scriptures. 

What  Cowper  practiced  in  himself,  and  what 
grew  out  of  the  very  instinct  and  life  of  his  char- 
acter, he  loved  in  others.  He  told  Newton  that 
he  preferred  his  style  as  a  historian  (referring  to 
Newton's  excellent  work  on  the  early  history  of 
the  Church)  to  that  of  the  two  most  renowned 
writers  of  history  the  present  day  has  seen.  He 
referred  not  to  Hume,  whose  style  was  more  sim- 
ple, and   whose  volumes  were  not  then  all  pub- 


414  hayley's    friendship. 

lished,  but  to  Robertson  and  Gibbon.  He  gave 
bis  reasons  for  this  preference,  with  his  own  point 
and  beauty.  |  <;In  your  style  I  see  no  affectation, 
in  every  line  of  theirs  I  see  nothing  else.  They 
disgust  me  always  ;  Robertson  with  his  pomp  and 
his  strut,  and  Gibbon  with  his  finical  and  French 
manners.  You  are  as  correct  as  they.  You  ex- 
press yourself  with  as  much  precision.  Your 
words  are  arranged  with  as  much  propriety,  but 
you  do  not  set  your  periods  to  a  tune.  They  dis- 
cover a  perpetual  desire  to  exhibit  themselves  to 
advantage,  whereas  your  subject  engrosses  you. 
They  sing,  and  you  say  ;  which,  as  history  is  a 
thing  to  be  said  and  not  sung,  is  in  my  judgment 
very  much  to  your  advantage.  A  writer  that  de- 
spises their  tricks,  and  is  yet  neither  inelegant  nor 
inharmonious,  proves  himself,  by  that  single  cir- 
cumstance, a  man  of  superior  judgment  and 
ability  to  them  both.  You  have  my  reasons.  I 
honor  a  manly  character,  in  which  good  sense  and 
a  desire  of  doing  good  are  the  predominant  feat- 
ures ;  but  affectation  is  an  emetic."  ) 

Hayley,  one  of  the  dearest  friends,  and  the  first 
biographer  of  Cowper,  has  connected  his  own  fame 
with  that  of  the  poet  by  this  friendship.  It  gives 
him  an  immortality  which  his  own  poetical  works, 
though  of  no  little  excellence,  could  not  have  secured 
for  him.  His  admiration  and  love  of  Cowper  were 
heartfelt  and  unbounded  ;  but  he  did  not  exag- 


A    stranger's    love.  415 

gerate  when  he  pronounced  "  The  Task,"  "  taken 
all  together,  perhaps  the  most  attractive  poem 
that  was  ever  produced,  and  such  as  required  the 
rarest  assemblage  of  truly  poetical  powers  for  its 
production/'  "  Sweet  bard!"  exclaimed  one  of 
Hayley's  correspondents,  who  never  had  enjoyed  the 
pleasure  of  a  personal  acquaintance  with  the  poet, 
but  whose  heart  was  inspired  with  the  deepest 
Christian  affection,  contemplating  Cowper's  por- 
trait by  Lawrence  : 


'  Sweet  bard  I  with  whom  iu  sympathy  of  choice 
I  've  ofttimes  left  the  world  at  nature's  voice, 
To  join  the  song  that  all  her  creatures  raise, 
To  carol  forth  their  great  Creator's  praise  ; 
Or  wrapt  in  visions  of  immortal  day, 
Have  gazed  on  Truth  in  Zion's  heavenly  way ; 
Sweet  bard,  may  this  thine  image,  all  I  know, 
Or  ever  may,  of  Cowper's  form  below. 
Teach  one,  who  views  it  with  a  Christian's  love, 
To  seek  and  find  thee  in  the  realms  above  I" 


THE    END. 


I 


/ 


